The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read

‘Naughty, naughty,’ Penny admonished him.

‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he said conspiratorially, stubbing it out in a flowerpot.

She smiled. She liked sharing his secrets. ‘I won’t,’ she said.

‘Good girl.’ He looked up towards the house. ‘All quiet on the Western Front?’

She nodded.

‘Want a cup of coffee?’

‘With sugar?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Of course.’

In the far corner of his greenhouse was hidden a little camping stove, a bottle of water, jars of coffee and sugar and a tin of Carnation milk. There was also, hidden in a large cardboard box, a bottle of Gordon’s gin: another delicious secret that no one else shared.

The smell of the methylated spirits and the match as it caught the flame for the camping stove was intoxicating.

‘Do take a seat, madam.’ Her father snapped open a rickety folding chair and placed an ancient chintz cushion on the seat. She sat, her bare feet, with sodden grass stalks sticking to them, barely touching the gravel floor.

‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘You must be cold in your nightie. Here, would you like my cardigan?’

She nodded and enjoyed the warmth of his body heat stored in the wool as he draped it over her shoulders. The kettle was boiling and he made them drinks. He had two spoons of coffee, no sugar and black. She had one teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and a large dollop of the condensed milk. She didn’t really like coffee but she didn’t want to hurt him by saying so.

He sat on an old wooden crate and pulled a serious face.

‘So, young lady, what have you got on at school today? Latin? Quantum Physics? Or a little light dissection?’

She giggled. ‘Daddy, I’m only seven. I’ve got reading. Sums, I think. Music and playing.’

‘A full and busy day then.’

She nodded. ‘Yep. What about you?’

He lit another cigarette. Rothmans. Penny thought them terribly glamorous.

‘Well, I’ve got to show a lady and a man around a very nice house that I think they should buy.’

‘Why do you think they should buy it?’

‘Because it is pretty, has a sunny garden, and their little boy will be able to play cricket on the lawn.’

Penny drank her coffee. The sugar and the Carnation milk made it just about bearable. ‘Can I come andsee it?’

‘No. Sorry, madam.’

‘Is it as nice as our house?’

‘Gosh, no. Ours is much nicer. And do you know why it’s nicer?’

Penny shook her head.

‘Because you live in it.’

‘And Suzie. And Mummy,’ she said loyally.

Her father stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Of course. Them too. Now, are you going to help me open these roof lights? It’s going to be hot today.’

For twenty minutes or so she helped him with the windows and fed the little goldfish in the pond and put out some birdseed while he pottered in the veg patch checking on the peas and lettuces.

They heard the back door open. Her mother stood on the step. ‘Mike? Are you out there with Penny?’

‘Yes, my love.’ He smiled and waved to his wife. ‘We’ve just been doing the early jobs.’

‘Well, come in or she’ll be late for school.’

Penny couldn’t recall the next hour or so, although over the years she had tried. There must have been breakfast, getting ready for school, kissing her mother goodbye and hugging her baby sister. But try as she might there was a blank. Her memory jumped straight from her father holding her hand as they walked back across the lawn, to the interior of her father’s car. It was big and dark green and the leather seats were warm under her bare legs. When it was just the two of them her father let her sit in the front next to him. Sometimes he let her change gear, instructing her when and how to do it. This morning was one of those days.

‘And into third. Good girl. And up into fourth.’

It was a happy morning. Even the man on the radio reading the news sounded happy. When the news ended and some music came on, her father lit another cigarette and opened his window, leaning his right elbow out into the warm air and tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. She was looking out of her window at a little dog walking smartly on a lead with a pretty lady in a pink coat when they stopped at the traffic lights. The noise and impact of the car running into the back of them was like an earthquake.

There was silence and then she started to cry. Her father asked in a rasping voice, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said through shocked tears.

‘Thank God.’ Her father, ashen, and with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, was finding it hard to speak, gasping for every word. Penny was scared. ‘Daddy? What’s the matter?’

Her father’s lips were going blue and his eyes were starey.

A man watching from the pavement ran towards them and spoke through the open window.

‘You OK, sir? I saw it happen. Wasn’t your fault, it was the bloke behind.’

Her father didn’t answer him. He was still struggling for breath but was now clutching at his left arm.

‘Daddy!’ Penny was frightened. ‘Daddy, what’s the matter?’

The man called the gathering crowd for help. ‘Quick, someone call an ambulance. This bloke’s having a heart attack.’

The police were very kind to Penny and a young police lady took her to school. Years later, when she was an adult, Penny wondered why she’d been taken to school at all. Let alone by a policewoman. Had they phoned her mother and she’d suggested it? That would make sense as it meant her mother could then go straight to the hospital. But who had looked after Suzie? Either way, Penny’s next memory was of being called out of her reading class and being taken to the headmistress’s study.

‘Ah, Penny,’ she’d said, ‘do sit down. You’ve had quite an adventure this morning.’

Penny didn’t know how to answer this so she just nodded.

‘Your daddy has been taken ill but the doctors are looking after him. Hopefully he’ll be OK but you may have to prepare yourself to be a very brave girl.’ Mrs Tyler looked directly into Penny’s eyes. ‘You understand?’

Penny didn’t understand, but said, ‘Yes.’

‘Good girl. Now, off you pop and be good for Mummy when you get home tonight.’

Penny spent the rest of the day in fear.

Somebody must have taken her home from school. It certainly wasn’t her mother because she was already home when Penny returned.

Penny ran to her and hugged her with relief. ‘How’s Daddy?’

Margot unwrapped herself from Penny. ‘He’s been very silly. He’s been smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too much gin. I’m very cross with him and so are the doctors.’

‘I told him off this morning,’ Penny said without thinking.

‘Told him off? Why?’

Penny was afraid she’d got her father into trouble. ‘Because …’

‘Was he smoking in the garden?’

Penny said nothing.

Her mother strode in to the kitchen and wrenched the back door open. Penny ran after her but couldn’t stop her finding the two cigarette butts. ‘Was he smoking these?’ Margot held them up.

Penny nodded and moved instinctively to protect the large cardboard box containing the contraband gin. Margot reached past her and opened the box.

She pulled out the bottle. ‘Did you know this was here?’

Penny remained mute. Margot shouted. ‘Did you know this was here?’

‘Yes,’ Penny said, feeling like a traitor.

Her mother looked at Penny with poison. ‘So you are responsible. It’s your fault he’s in the hospital. If you had stopped him, we wouldn’t be in this mess but if he dies now we won’t have anything. No Daddy, no money. If we are thrown out of this house it will be your fault. I hope you remember that.’ Penny lived in fear for several days, expecting to hear that her father had died and that it was all her fault. But he came back to her. That time.

*

Penny’s hand shook as she took a mouthful of the brandy and lovage. ‘She hated me.’

‘Hate is a very strong word. I’m sure she didn’t hate you,’ said Simon, reasonably.

‘You never met her though, did you?’

‘I would have liked to.’

‘She’d have hated you too.’

‘Well, we’ll never know.’ Simon had a fresh thought. ‘I still can’t understand why Suzie hasn’t phoned you.’

Penny drained her glass. ‘Why would she?’

‘She’s your sister when all is said and done.’

‘We burnt our bridges the last time we saw each other.’

‘Please tell me what happened.’

‘No.’

‘It might help. After all, it must be five years ago now.’

‘It doesn’t matter now my mother’s dead.’ Penny swallowed the remains of her drink and hugged Jenna tightly. ‘I don’t want to think about it. And it really, really doesn’t matter now.’

Simon sat down next to her. ‘Exactly, Penny, love, she can’t hurt you any more.’

When he and Penny had decided to get married, Penny had refused point-blank to invite them to the wedding.

‘But this is a chance to rebuild the relationship,’ Simon had told her. ‘To forgive.’

Penny had been adamant. ‘I don’t want them infecting my life again. I don’t want them to tell you things about me that will stop you loving me.’

‘You don’t know that – and anyway, I could never stop loving you.’

‘Believe me, they would try.’

Simon had attempted to bring the conversation up a handful of times since, but each time Penny had become tearful and finally he dropped the subject.

Penny took his hand and held it against her chest. ‘I’m so lucky to have you.’

‘And me you.’ He dropped a kiss on to the top of her head and she released him. ‘When is the funeral?’

She looked surprised. ‘Oh God! I forgot to ask.’

‘Will you go?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It may help. The ending resolved and all that stuff.’

Penny gave a small bark of laughter. ‘I don’t think so.’

Penny’s head dropped as she rubbed her face into Jenna’s soft hair. Simon could tell she was crying. ‘Darling Penny – was it really that bad?’

Penny nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Simon persisted gently. ‘But you have a sister. Jenna has an aunt. Wouldn’t you like to have your family reunited again?’

Penny lifted her face to him. In that moment wishing she could tell him the truth but she was unable to confront the pain it caused her. ‘I have my family. You and Jenna and Helen – you are my family.’

4

ELLA

It was a Sunday and it was raining in Clapham. The branches of the cherry trees in Mandalay Road were bare, their leaves long ago dropped damply onto the windscreens of the cars parked on either side of the street. Rain bounced off the slate roofs like heavy artillery fire and swilled down drainpipes, startling flat-eared cats who skittered off to their catflaps. At intervals, passing cars shooshed through the deep puddles ploughing up sheets of water to drench already bedraggled pedestrians. It was a road of good neighbours and occasional street parties. The Queen’s Jubilee and the Royal Wedding were still fresh in the residents’ memories. Now, Christmas trees were already appearing in bay windows, their lights flashing and twinkling brightly.

No 47, Mandalay Road was identical in design to all the others in the terrace: an early Edwardian, two-up two-down with a small front garden. Its front door and window frames were painted in a delicate lilac, complementing the pale blues, pinks and yellows of its neighbours.

Inside, Ella was lolling on a sofa that was strewn with shawls to hide the decades of wear and tear. There was little spring left in its base but it had been Ella’s grandmother’s and was therefore treasured. She looked contentedly at the Christmas tree she had put up that afternoon.

A pot of tea, now stewed, and a half-empty mug sat on a tray by her side. On the television Julie Andrews was yodelling. All was well with the world.

She heard the creak of the floorboards above and the tread on the stairs before the door to the sitting room opened. Her brother came in, rubbing his stubbly chin and yawning.

‘What you watching?’ he said. ‘Shift yourself.’

She moved her legs and he sat in the space she’d created. She said, ‘What do you think of the tree?’

He looked at it. ‘Oh yeah. Nice.’

‘One of Granny’s baubles had broken.’

‘Inevitable after all these years.’

‘I know, but it upsets me. Each year a little more of our history gone.’

‘What’s made you so cheerful?’ he asked, prodding her with his elbow.

‘Christmas is a time for reflection,’ she said primly.

He grunted and watched as Julie Andrews and the von Trapp children worked the little puppets. ‘So, you hungry?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I’ve got fish fingers and waffles in the freezer.’

‘I fancy an Indian.’

‘Have we got enough money?’

‘Bollocks to that. I’ll put it on my credit card.’

‘Are you going to eat that bhaji?’ Henry reached with his fork to spear it but Ella got there first. ‘Mine! I’m starving.’

Henry mopped up the last of his tarka dahl with his peshwari naan and sat back, contentedly munching. ‘God, that was good.’

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full; you’re spitting desiccated coconut on the rug.’

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t care. Want a beer?’

‘We’ve only got one can left.’

‘Share?’

She nodded and he got up to get it from the fridge.

They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.

Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.

‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’

‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.

‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.

‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.

Ella tutted.

‘What?’ her brother said.

‘You know what.’

‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’

Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’

‘No.’

‘When did you last see her then?’

‘The other day.’

‘Where?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She blew me out.’

‘Ha. Why?’

‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’

‘Like who?’

‘Justin.’

‘Justin no socks and loafers?’

‘Yeah.’

Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.

‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’

‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’

‘Total.’

They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.

‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’

Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the romantic tour of Trevay – Granny’s old house, our old school – and she’d be putty in your hands.’

That night, lying in her bed and listening to the rain still hurling itself at No 47, Ella thought about what her brother had said after they’d finished watching TV. She did need a job. She’d had plenty of them since getting her art degree from Swindon where she had trained to be an illustrator specializing in children’s books, but none of them had been as an illustrator. She’d been a chalet maid in Val d’Isere, a nanny in Ibiza, Holland and Scotland and a barmaid in countless pubs and bars in South London. Henry had taken pity on her and offered her a room in No 47, a house he’d bought from his best friend when he’d left to get married. Henry was working his way up in a firm of commercial surveyors but he was making it very clear that he couldn’t afford to have his sister as a non-rent paying guest for ever, even if she had brought her share of Granny’s furniture with her.

She thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape and sent a little prayer to her grandmother. ‘Granny, would you find me a nice job? Either someone who’d like me to illustrate a book or a publisher who wants to print Hedgerow Adventures? Please Granny. Night-night.’

In the morning Ella felt refreshed and hopeful. The sun was shining and every rain cloud had vanished, leaving the sky periwinkle blue. She sang along to the radio as she washed up last night’s curry plates and put some bacon under the grill. Henry appeared. ‘Bacon? Ella, you’re a darling.’

‘It’s the last few rashers but enough for sandwiches.’

‘What sort of day have you got planned?’ he asked as she plonked a bottle of ketchup in front of him.

She had good news. ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he bit into his sandwich. She raised hers back. ‘A proper job. And I’m going to send out Hedgerow Adventures to another literary agent.’

He couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘Not another one?’

‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s a good story and the pictures are some of my best. Every child I’ve ever nannied for has loved it.’

He shrugged. ‘Ever thought they may have been being polite?’

‘Charming! Thank you, you really know how to boost confidence, don’t you? Ever thought of life coaching? Writing a best-selling personal help book, such as Achieve The Ultimate You by Henry Huntley, Fuckwit with Hons?’

‘Ella, I’m trying to be helpful. Hedgerow Adventures is very charming, but it’s not going to turn you into J.K. Rowling overnight, is it?’

She couldn’t disagree.

‘So …’ He stood up and put his plate in the sink before doing up the top button of his shirt and straightening his tie. ‘By all means send it to a new agent – but promise me you’ll check out the job agencies too?’

It was lunchtime and her feet were tired. Not having enough money to top up her Oyster card she’d walked for miles, checking every job agency before setting off on the long hike up to Bedford Square and the offices of the latest hotshot literary agent she’d read about in The Bookseller.

The brass plaque outside was freshly polished. She walked up the short flight of steps and pushed the doorbell on the intercom. A buzzer sounded and the blackly glossy front door opened to reveal a silent marble hall with a grand staircase curling up to the right. On her left was an open doorway and a smart young man behind the desk spoke without looking up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Thank you, yes. I was wondering if I could have a meeting with someone about my book.’

His eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. Expressionless, he asked, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, but perhaps I could—’

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.’

‘I see. It’s a very short story, it would only take a few min—’

‘You must have an appointment first.’

‘May I make one?’

‘Has anyone asked to see your manuscript?’

‘Well no, but—’

‘Then I can’t make an appointment.’

‘But how do I make an appointment if no one’s read my book? And how do I get someone to read my book if I can’t get an appointment?’

He smiled wanly. ‘It’s a very difficult business.’

The phone on his desk rang and he took the call, making it clear that he’d terminated his dealings with her.

Ella was angry and felt humiliated to boot. She pulled herself up tall and walked back into the hall to let herself out.

Running down the staircase was a young woman with her hair scraped messily back from her face and a smudge of red ink on her cheek. She was heading for the front door as Ella was struggling with the handle.

‘Here, let me help you,’ said the woman.

The door opened with ease under her practised touch. She smiled at Ella. ‘Are you Gilda’s temp?’

Ella wished she were. ‘No, but …’

The woman spotted Ella’s manuscript.

‘Oh, an author?’

‘Well, not exactly, I—’

The woman smiled knowingly. ‘Supercilious Louis wouldn’t let you hand it in? Give it to me and I’ll read it. You’ve got your contact details on it, I assume?’

‘Yes, on the front page.’

‘Great. Sorry, I must rush. Meeting someone for a coffee. I’ll be in touch. You never know, this just might be our lucky day. Bye!’

Ella watched as the woman walked quickly across the square.

‘Granny,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’

5

In the vicarage in Pendruggan the sun was still hiding behind the cliffs – and Penny wished she could hide under her covers. She felt lightheaded. She hadn’t slept well because Jenna had had her up three times in the night. Teething was horrible for both of them. Night feeds were usually rather special. Jenna and she would sit in the silence, staring into each other’s eyes, sharing comfort and love. But last night had been awful. Jenna had wanted to bite down on Penny’s nipples to relieve the pain in her gums but she did it once too often and Penny tapped her leg in anger. In the split second before she opened her lungs and screamed, Penny saw her look of shock and disbelief.

‘Jenna, darling! I’m so sorry. Shh, Daddy’s sleeping. Shh. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Penny was beside herself. How could she have hurt Jenna like that? She wrapped her up in a cot blanket and held her close as she carried her downstairs. She went to her study, the room furthest from their bedroom, so that Simon wouldn’t be disturbed.

‘Darling, shh, shh. I love you. I’m so so sorry.’ She rocked Jenna back and forwards until she calmed a little and reached out to touch Penny’s face. Penny kissed the tiny palm and smiled. ‘Forgiven?’

She fumbled for her handbag, which was on the floor next to her desk, and found the travelling sachets of Calpol. ‘Here, darling, open wide.’ Then she found the teething ring she’d bought the day before and offered that to Jenna too. At last peace reigned again.

Penny got herself and Jenna comfy in her desk chair and she idly turned on her computer to see if there were any messages from Mavis. There were about fifty messages. She scrolled through them. The first dozen were spam or unimportant. Then she saw Jack Bradbury’s name. Three emails, one after the other, all of them with the same subject. URGENT: MRTIBBS

She felt her pulse quickening and her breathing become shallow. Her fingers were shaking. She couldn’t make herself open the emails. She scrolled down to see if Mavis had replied. Nothing. A black dread settled over her. She heard the roar of her own blood in her ears. Shit shit shit. What was she going to do? Where was the old Penny who would have known what to do and would have done it? Overwhelming grief at the loss of herself bore down on her shoulders and she wept silently, her tears falling on the sleeping Jenna. She deleted Jack’s emails and shut her computer down again.

And now it was just after midday and she was exhausted, but this feeling was not simply tiredness. Since she’d heard about the death of her mother an extra layer of darkness, an invisible membrane, was separating her from the world. She had often felt like this as a child, particularly after her father had died. A feeling that she didn’t really exist, that life rushed around her and she simply glided through it like a ghost. Occasionally she’d reach out a hand to touch a wall or her leg, just to make sure she was real, but it still didn’t feel right.