Bel and her father sat on the wooden bench at the head of the beach, overlooking the sands. It was eight thirty and they’d already eaten their favourite fish and chips at the Queen Bess. During supper Dennis had told her about the museum-gallery he’d visited in Penzance earlier, and Laura Knight, the twentieth-century British artist exhibited there. He waffled on about war art and some bloke in a four-by-four who had cut him up at the roundabout, then about the cheese scone he’d had for lunch.
Bel listened with half an ear, but she was only looking for a break in the conversation in order to put her question. She hadn’t yet brought up Dennis’s comment to Harris about extending his visit, because she hadn’t wanted to spoil supper. But it had bugged her all afternoon and now she needed to know. She also realized this was almost her last chance, if he did go home as planned, to have the conversation about the debt – to plead with him for more time.
‘Were you serious about not leaving, Dad? It’s not going to be easy finding somewhere else to stay.’
Her father turned to her on the bench, his face lit by the sun setting radiantly over the cliff to the western side of the bay. But he didn’t answer her question. Instead, he gave a contented sigh. ‘You know what? I really like this place, Bella. And I’m thinking, You could live around here, Dennis, old chap.’
Bel stared at him.
‘Listen, sweetheart, I’m not stupid,’ he went on enthusiastically. ‘I know you don’t want to come back to London. And I can see why. So I’ve come up with this great wee plan.’
She waited, heart thumping, while he shifted about on the hard bench. ‘You sell the hovel, as planned, and pay me back. I sell Earls Court. And we buy a nice, roomy place down here. Live in it together.’ His smile was triumphant.
Bel could not prevent a small gasp escaping her lips. She was almost used to – although not compliant with – his repeated affirmation that she would sell the cottage. But this new attack on her ever-dwindling hopes of freedom horrified her. ‘Dad, you love London. It’s where all your friends are …’
‘Ha! Friends? My only mate is Reg, and he’s on his last legs by the look of him. The rest I don’t much care for.’
‘What about Pauline?’
Dennis shrugged. ‘There’ll be the equivalent down here.’
Bel frowned, a bit shocked at his casual dismissal of a friend. Although there probably were plenty of older women in the area who would welcome her father’s company.
Her father was eyeing her questioningly. ‘You do realize she’s a tart, don’t you?’ He waved a hand and hurried on, ‘Anyway. This is the perfect plan, don’t you think?’ When she didn’t immediately respond with whoops of joy, he added, ‘It’ll take the financial burden off you. Security for life … And you won’t have to do that ridiculous job any more.’
‘I like my job,’ she muttered weakly. It was all she could think of to say – the smallest bite she could take from the massive, indigestible meal he’d thrown down in front of her. ‘And, anyway, I’m getting a better one soon – baking at the farm shop.’
Dennis did not seem to hear her. He leaned forward and nudged her arm. ‘How about it, girl? Think how much fun we could have. It’s a good crowd you’ve hooked up with – apart from that grumpy old sod in the farm shop. I could be part of that, too.’
‘I love Mum’s cottage, Dad, you know I do.’ Bel’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Listen, when I’m earning more money, is there any way we could stick to our original arrangement? she pleaded, seizing the moment. ‘Unless you really, really need the cash …’ Her father was watching her, but she couldn’t read the expression in his dark eyes. ‘With this new job – and with Louis pitching in soon – between us we should be able manage a reasonable amount every month.’
Her mind was whirring. She had no idea what Mr Ajax would offer her financially. He was famous for being stingy with his workforce. But she thought he needed her as much as she needed him. And it would be way better than her current income.
‘Oh, come now.’ Her father’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘You’re saying you’d rather slum it in the hovel, where you can touch all four walls at once, than enjoy a proper bit of space, maybe even a sea view?’
He’s not listening, not taking me seriously, she thought despairingly. Trying a different tack, since he didn’t seem willing to respond to the debt issue, she adopted a cheery tone as she said, ‘Dad, come on. You’ve been in Cornwall a week and suddenly you’re moving here?’
Dennis laughed. ‘Well, you did exactly that,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘and you seem to love it.’
‘You have no idea what it’s like living in a village,’ she said, her voice strident with suppressed panic. ‘It’s parochial, small-minded. You’d hate it. You’re a total townie. And it’s summer now, but the winters are bleak, so Patsy says.’
Her father’s face seemed set and determined. Taking her hand – which he never did – he stared into her eyes. ‘Bella, sweetheart. Please. I’m nearly eighty. I’ve not got long. I need you … You’re my only family. Don’t be stubborn. You can lead your own life, do whatever job you like. I won’t stop you. You know your mum would have wanted it.’
Bel’s heart contracted. He was, indeed, very much alone without her. A man like Dad doesn’t make many close friends, she thought. And at his age the ones he did have were dying off or getting too frail for socializing, like Reg. But the prospect of him living even close by in her village – as she’d come to think of it – sent her into a funk. And, unlike with Louis, she couldn’t just walk away: he was her flesh and blood, her father. Would it be so terrible, to share a house … if it was big enough? she found herself asking silently. But her pounding heart provided the answer.
‘Why don’t you go home as planned, Dad? We need time to think this all through properly. See how you feel in a couple of weeks.’ Getting him back to London was her prime concern right now.
Dennis nodded, a small smile on his face. ‘So you think it’s a sound idea? Good girl.’
She squirmed inwardly. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home. It’s getting chilly now.’ They linked arms and began the ascent through the village to the pub, Dennis breathing heavily, even at the slow pace he chose, and stopping frequently. It was as if he were deliberately advertising the extent of his frailty to her.
Once her father was safely ensconced in his bedroom at the Queen Bess, Bel walked disconsolately back down the lane to the cottage, tense and furious with herself. Nothing’s been agreed, she kept repeating silently. But it was hard noticing the hope engendered in her father’s face by her cowardly lack of resistance to his new plan.
As she turned onto the path leading to her front door, she glanced across to the headland and JJ’s van. The lights were on. She hesitated for a moment, then walked back to the lane.
‘Hey, you.’ JJ’s smile was broad and welcoming. ‘Nice surprise. Come in, come in.’
‘I need a drink,’ she said grimly.
Later, after the consumption of a bottle of Rioja – during which JJ listened to her impassioned ranting with admirable patience – they ended up in bed. Bel was too weak for principles tonight … and he didn’t seem to mind.
It was only when she got back to the cottage the following morning that she remembered the croissant dough, chilling in the fridge. It was Friday, she didn’t have to work, so she set about fashioning the pastries, stoking the Rayburn, leaving them for the final prove, then sliding them into the oven.
But she was sure, as she did so, that this batch was doomed. She was feeling none of the pleasure and calm she usually experienced in the baking process. The threat from her father to move down here, too much wine and sex, lack of sleep: none of these made her mood conducive. She felt tired and rough around the edges. Her croissants would sense it and rebel.
When, with trepidation, she opened the oven later that morning, she was depressed to find she was right. The row of pastries looked dismal: shrivelled, burned round the edges and solid to the touch. She told herself it was the oven heat, or the room was over-warm for the second prove, or she’d sloshed on too much egg-wash and sealed the layers. But she knew the problem went deeper than a mere technical misstep.
Bel walked up to the pub to find her father after she’d binned the offending croissants. She hoped he’d have forgotten his crazy idea of the previous evening – aware he’d had quite a bit to drink at supper. Hoped, too, he would be packed and all set to leave for London tomorrow.
But she was met by the landlord at the door, looking harassed. ‘I was just about to come and fetch you. Your dad’s back’s crooked. He’s still in bed, says he’s been trying to ring you. You’d best go up.’
Bel checked her phone, which she’d put on silent mode during the night and hadn’t switched back – and found six missed calls from her father. She cursed silently as she mounted the stairs and knocked on his door. Hearing a grunt, she went in. Dennis was flat on his back, knees tented under the covers, groaning. When she came nearer, he peered up at her, his small eyes full of reproach.
‘It’s gone again. You insisted we sit on that damn bench in the cold. That’s what’s done it.’
Protest rose in Bel’s throat. But she held back. ‘Poor you. What can I do to help?’
‘I need Holly. She’s the only one who can fix it.’
‘I’m sure there’s someone round here. I’ll go and ask Logan. Do you want coffee or something to eat?’
‘Help me up,’ her father demanded, ignoring her question. ‘I need to sit up.’
She managed to settle him half propped on the pillows, amid a lot of moaning and cursing. He looked terrible, his hair wild, chin unshaven, gaze befuddled and dark with discomfort.
‘Coffee,’ he growled, closing his eyes.
As Logan made a double-shot espresso at the machine, he seemed uneasy, not his usual jolly-landlord self. ‘Look, Bel, I hate doing this to your dad when he’s sick, but I will need the room tomorrow morning. We’re chock-full now, till September.’
Bel tried not to panic. ‘I’m sure he’ll be OK by then. He often gets these spasms. Do you know of any physios?’
Logan looked as if he wasn’t sure what a physio was. ‘I’ve got the doc’s number.’ He pulled a face. ‘Not that you get much joy from that lot these days.’
She thanked him. Patsy will know, she thought, as she took the coffee upstairs to her father, then went into the corridor to call her neighbour.
Amber, Patsy’s friend and reiki master, wafted into Dennis’s room on Friday evening in an ankle-length soft green caftan, grey hair sweeping down her back like a sheet, silver bangles jingling softly. Bel thought her father would have a conniption, knowing his opinion of anything vaguely alternative. But her gentle voice and general air of calm seemed to soothe him and he gave in to her ministrations without fuss. It probably helps she’s so beautiful, Bel thought, wryly.
Afterwards Dennis was in a daze. ‘Bloody hell. That woman’s a wonder. Hardly touched me. But the heat coming off her hands was like a blow torch.’ He’d grinned up at Bel from the bed. ‘She pinpointed every ache and pain without asking. Never felt so relaxed in my life.’
His back wasn’t completely better, but the crippling spasms had eased a little, leaving aching and stiffness in their wake – the anti-inflammatories Bel had given him were probably kicking in too. Amber promised to return the following day but Bel knew the writing was on the wall. Dennis would not be sliding onto the pale leather seats of his green Jaguar in the morning, and driving away. There was not a chance in hell.
It was just before ten on Saturday morning when Dennis hobbled from the pub, leaning heavily on Micky’s arm. Bel had packed for him and his bag was stowed in the boot of the Jaguar.
‘You’re not driving my car, girl,’ her father objected, when he saw her opening the driver’s door. ‘I can get it as far as the hovel, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Yeah, but you’ll need to put it in the car park, Dennis,’ Micky pointed out. The two men had bonded over a couple of evenings of snooker with Micky’s friend down the coast. ‘And it’s a long walk up.’
Dennis frowned at him. ‘You drive, then.’
Micky shot Bel a questioning glance, his round blue eyes full of amusement. She just shrugged. No use arguing about the relative competency of women drivers when her father was in this state.
In anticipation of Dennis’s stay in Bel’s cottage, Logan had loaned her an airbed, Jaz her pink beanbag, JJ a sleeping bag – he’d invited Bel to stay with him in the van, but she knew that was a bad idea and, anyway, her father might need her: those narrow stairs were a death trap to a wobbly old man. Only a couple of nights, she kept telling herself.
Later, Bel and Patsy finished pumping up the black, flocked airbed, which, when laid flat, took up a good proportion of the sitting area. Dennis was upstairs in Bel’s bed, snoozing.
Patsy stood staring at her. ‘Hey, come on, sweetheart,’ she said, giving Bel a hug. ‘It’s not for long. You’ll be fine.’
‘Will I?’
‘Amber’s coming later. She’ll sort him out and he can be on his way in no time.’
Patsy was trying to comfort her and Bel made an effort to look as if she was succeeding. But she knew her father’s back wasn’t the real issue here. His last bout of back pain had mysteriously appeared a couple of days before she was due to leave for Cornwall. This was his response when he felt Bel was slipping out of his control. It was as if she were a fish who’d swallowed an angler’s fly. She hadn’t been reeled in yet, but she had the sensation she was already doomed.
After her friend had gone, Bel climbed the stairs with a cup of tea for her father. When she entered he was propped up in bed, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. He hadn’t shaved or brushed his hair today, and appeared derelict.
‘How’s the back?’ she asked, putting his mug down on the bedside table.
‘Shite,’ came the predictable reply. ‘This bed’s hard as nails.’
‘Well, it’s only for a couple of nights,’ she said briskly, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.
Her father raised an eyebrow. ‘You might at least pretend I’m welcome in your house.’
Bel was stricken. Is it that obvious?
‘You said it yourself, Dad. “Poky”, I think you called it.’ She kept her tone light, trying not to sound defensive. ‘I barely fit, so it’s hardly ideal for us both.’
‘I don’t want to be here either, believe me.’
‘Hey, come on, Dad.’ She suddenly regretted the rancorous atmosphere – for which she felt responsible – and went over and perched on the end of the bed, patting her father’s legs through the duvet. ‘I’ve got pasties for lunch. Do you think you’ll be able to make it downstairs?’
She could see him struggling to put aside his crabbiness, his mouth twisting as if he were trying actually to swallow it. ‘Amber said I should move around, so I suppose I’d better get up. But those stairs are treacherous, I’ll need help.’
Once safely downstairs and settled in the orange chair, Bel saw her father eyeing the mattress. ‘You’re sleeping on that?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
His features softened. ‘I do appreciate you giving up your bed for me, Bella. I’ve been a bit of an old grump, I know, but this back thing drives me mad. It reminds me of my age, makes me feel like such an old crock.’
‘Poor you. It must be horrible.’
‘But I suppose I am getting old …’
She felt him watching her as she pulled the pasties out of the oven and put them on two small plates. He was about to say something serious, she could tell from his tone, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. ‘I haven’t got any tomato ketchup, I’m afraid,’ she said, as she handed her father his lunch.
He put the plate in his lap. Smiling charmingly at her, he said, ‘Me moving here … You’ve had some time to think about it?’
‘Umm …’
‘We used to get on so well, you and me, back in the day. My life ran like clockwork with you in charge. Do you remember when I was supposed to pitch up on that radio show? I’d been on the sauce the night before and you had to rescue me?’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘You knew as much about those wines as I did.’
Bel did indeed remember. She remembered having to wrangle her father into a clean shirt, turning her head aside to avoid the stale reek of whisky-breath, then bundling him into a taxi, pressing the notes she’d scribbled out at the last minute into his hand when they arrived at the studio building. She’d hardly dared listen to the broadcast, in case he stumbled and bumbled and made a fool of himself. But Dennis rose to the occasion, of course, and put in a lively, convincing performance.
In those years before Louis, when Bel had worked for her father – running the wine workshops, organizing trips abroad, doing the admin for his business and his life – he was exacting, controlling, but showed few signs of his violent temper. He hadn’t needed to, because he had his daughter where he wanted her and loved it. When she moved in with Louis, the various people who replaced her as administrator of Carnegie Wines never lasted and he’d sold his business five years later. He was in his late sixties by then, and quite ready to retire, but he always blamed Louis for stealing Bel.
She knew she was being schmoozed by her father now. ‘Let’s talk about it when you’re better, Dad,’ she said lightly. ‘Amber will be here in a minute.’
Dennis pursed his lips, his expression tinged with suspicion. ‘Is this about that bawbag chef? He wagged a finger at her. ‘You’re holding out on me, girl. Why is that?’
Bel inhaled slowly. Even if I have to sell my beloved cottage, I’m not going to live with you. She framed the words, but when it came to it, she just couldn’t speak them. She caught a flash of peacock blue passing the open cottage window and sighed with relief: Amber was at the door.