‘That’s the place. That’s the hotel where it happened.’ Brigit followed Grant’s gaze across the bay to an imposing white building on the horizon, slowly emerging from the cold January morning fog. Sitting upstairs at a window table in a warm harbourside brasserie on the west coast of Cornwall, he fell silent, lost in troubled reflection. So much had happened since that time he thought he would never be able to recollect those distressing events; but his mind had taken a trip in a time machine. He was back in 1972, recalling it all with absolute clarity.
Every year the families had travelled to the hotel from across the length and breadth of Britain. Some arrived early in the morning, fresh and raring to go, having put their cars on the overnight sleeper to Penzance; others turned up hot and exhausted after having driven up to ten hours in their vehicles from Leeds, Manchester and elsewhere in the days before air-conditioning. Even the London contingent would emerge from their cars aching and complaining about the narrow winding lanes in Devon and Cornwall in this era before dual carriage-ways. Thrown together for a two-week reunion in August every year, the families had come to resemble a club, a group of friends bonded together by successive summer holidays.
‘It was such a different time.’ Grant’s face gazed into the distance as he started to reminisce. ‘The 1960s changed things. There was this great feeling of freedom …’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Brigit interrupted. ‘Calling Planet Earth!’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t stop thinking about it all – the hotel and the events that took place. It was strange. We were in a bubble where so much seemed perfect until the incident.’
‘What incident?’ Brigit asked, despite herself. A petite, forceful-looking woman in her late forties, she was casually dressed in designer jeans and a warm woollen cardigan beneath a Barbour jacket and a bright checked scarf. Sitting there, she looked up at the hotel. She thought it resembled a castle, perched above sweeping lawns that stretched down to the sea way below. As it emerged from the morning fog she could discern a sharp precipice at the edge of the lawn, which gave way to red rock dropping steeply down to an expanse of sand washed by energetic waves.
‘That would be telling,’ Grant teased abruptly. He left the table, paid the bill and suggested it was time they visited the art gallery they had come to see. Brigit gave him a quizzical look.
Grant, tall and wiry, was a few years older than Brigit and was not usually noted for his reticence in telling yarns and stories of his past. The recipients of his tales could find themselves somewhat disconcerted when he got into his stride, as his eyes moved in separate directions. He maintained that this was great in meetings, where he could make two individuals feel they were the focus of his attention at the same time. It was a peculiarity that didn’t cause him a moment’s trouble or embarrassment; it was merely a party piece when the occasion demanded.
It was later that day that Grant became more forthcoming. ‘Tom Youlen was an eccentric porter at the hotel and something of a fixture there. On film nights he would interrupt the movie, even a James Bond, to announce, “Telephone call for Mr Hegarty” or whoever. He wasn’t particularly friendly, regarding us as “grockles” – as necessary but rather decadent evils. We were to be tolerated. He used to mutter to himself, “Puffin, shag, herring gull, gannet and chough.” It was a bit like a mantra to him. As teenagers we were intrigued and amused by this. It was pointed out by one of the grown-ups that they were Cornish coastland birds. On the day of the incident a few of our parents had gone to church in Zennor, where Tom lived, and on the way back in the car they encountered him staggering into a hedgerow by the road. Alarmed, they rushed to his aid. He was in a terrible way. All he could mutter was “It was him. Him from the hotel. He said he would … if I spoke.”’
Brigit considered Grant’s words in silence, allowing the impact of this to sink in. ‘How dreadful. What effect did this have on everyone?’
‘Our parents never went back. None of us did.’
Brigit was astounded. Grant had previously referred to his childhood holidays in Cornwall only in fleeting, superficial terms that had given the impression they were of little consequence. She turned to face him. Moving a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead, she inquired, ‘So did they catch the person Tom referred to as “him from the hotel”? Was it a member of staff or a guest?’
‘That was the strange thing. The staff were all cleared of any wrong-doing. It was suggested that Tom had been poisoned. Five guests were questioned, but all had alibis. I later heard that one of them had confessed something to one of his children on his deathbed, but that’s never been confirmed.’ Grant sighed and wondered how much he should divulge to his wife. Should he tell her the truth as far as he knew it? And, more significantly, should he own up to what was really driving him, the fear that had been eating away at him for more than forty years? On that last holiday he had learnt of his mother’s affair with the cardiologist Richard Hughes-Webb; he also knew that Tom’s stroke had been induced by ingesting some poisonous substance with which Richard was experimenting at his cottage in Zennor where Tom was caretaker. Grant had never been able to forget Hughes-Webb’s alibi – his own mother. What had she concealed, and how much had she known?
‘Why would anyone want to harm the porter?’
Grant hesitated. ‘Well, he had obviously seen or heard something, and someone had very real fears of being exposed for some reason. Don’t forget, this was the early 1970s, and even homosexuality was barely legal then.’ An inner voice was yelling at him, ‘Leave all this alone!’ But he knew he was now ready to examine the past; in fact, he needed to examine the past.
Later that night, as they lay in bed in their rented cottage further up the coast, Brigit’s mind returned to the subject of the porter. The howling wind and the sound of crashing waves didn’t exactly soothe the discomfort she had felt on hearing Grant’s tale. ‘Did anyone discover how Tom came to be in such a state in the lane?’
‘Yes, he seems to have been poisoned – and this caused a stroke.’
‘And did he live long after that?’
‘About five years, I was told. But I’d like to confirm that by visiting the graveyard tomorrow, if that’s OK with you.’
‘Yes, fine, but can we do a rain check in the morning? I don’t really fancy exploring a graveyard in weather like this.’
They listened to the pounding waves. The little cottage creaked and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind. A loud thump startled them, but Grant reassured Brigit that it was likely only a piece of driftwood blown on to the roof.
She cuddled closer. ‘So who do you think it was?’
Grant paused before replying. The storm raging outside seemed to reach a crescendo, rattling windows and doors as if some giant invisible hand was shaking the foundations of the cottage.
‘The five suspects were all guests at the hotel and were each interviewed twice. Ted Jessops, a factory owner from the Midlands; Bob Silver, a merchant banker from the City of London; Richard Hughes-Webb, a heart specialist from Croydon; Paul Galvin, an accountant from London; and Arnie Charnley from Manchester, who claimed to be in print and publishing but whose son told us he distributed porn magazines.’
‘Hardly the dirty dozen.’
‘True, but it turned out they all could have had a motive.’ Grant fell silent.
For a moment Brigit thought he was asleep, but she knew his breathing patterns and realized he was wide awake. ‘Don’t you feel it was all wrong’, she whispered, ‘that no one has ever been arrested and prosecuted? And why haven’t you told me any of this before?’
‘Of course, someone should have been brought to book, but at the time we were just teenage kids, carefree adolescents enjoying new experiences. To be frank, it ended in such an unfortunate and inconclusive way that for a long time I pretended to myself that it didn’t really happen at all. Funnily enough, I remember the night one of our group, Jenny Charnley, came rushing down to the disco – near where we had lunch today in fact.’
‘And?’
‘She was hysterical. I remember Hawkwind’s track “Silver Machine” was blasting out, and she tried to shout above it.’
‘And?’
‘She was screaming about the police having taken her father to the local station for questioning. We all felt for her, of course, but we had no experience of that kind of situation, had no idea what to say. It was only the following day, when Paul Galvin’s son Danny drove four of us in his Mini to the beach at Sennen Cove, that the reality of it all hit us. I was in the car with Caroline Jessops, Suzie Hughes-Webb and Justyn Silver.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It was a glorious summer’s afternoon, the sun was glistening off the sea and Danny was looking for a parking space, when he said, “Hey, all this stuff kicking off is way too heavy. What if it’s one of our fathers?” I asked, “How do you know it isn’t one of our mothers?” “Tom said it was a man,” he replied. Danny’s outburst made us pause for thought, and finally Caroline said, “Well, they shouldn’t visit the sins of the fathers on the children.” And, to be honest, that became our attitude. At our age, life was full of possibilities, great music and, at that moment, a fantastic beach on a sunny August afternoon. It was actually the next day, at the Office, when our mood really changed.’
‘The Office?’
‘Yes, that was the nickname of the local pub, the Cornish Arms. It was given by one of the odder guests, a bachelor of around fifty called Hector Wallace, who went there every morning at twelve midday and every evening after dinner. Hector’s life ended tragically as well.’ Grant’s voice faltered.
‘So what happened at the Office?’
‘There was another incident late that night. It made my blood run cold,’ replied Grant, quietly in a sombre voice that disconcerted Brigit. He was never this quiet. He didn’t do quiet. She sought to reassure him, feeling she had pressed him too hard. Perhaps it was better to leave the past as a place of reference, not of residence, as her father liked to say. But it disturbed her that until relatively recently he had never once mentioned the strange events that had not only caused the curtailment of his cherished Cornish holidays but which would appear to have cast a cloud over him. She was also a little confused by the mention of so many people from Grant’s past. What could be their relevance now, and would their past threaten the couple’s future?
‘I think we should leave off for tonight,’ she said. ‘Let’s visit Tom’s grave tomorrow if this wretched storm abates and try to make better sense of it all. It was a long, long time ago, and it wasn’t your fault.’ She kissed him softly on the cheek, and he half smiled.
Her words reverberated in the air as the waves continued to crash against the battered shoreline. She thought about those coastal birds: the puffin, shag, herring gull, gannet and chough. Were they out there tonight, she wondered, as she drifted into a fitful sleep. For several hours Grant thought he wouldn’t sleep at all.