At 6.45 a.m. – far too early, but Monica struck her as someone who wouldn’t appreciate lateness – Della set off for Kinnet Cove. Her stomach growled hollowly as she sped along the motorway. Apart from not having had breakfast, she hadn’t eaten last night either. After Liam – then Freda – had left, she had nipped over to Burley Bridge to talk electricals with Douglas Bagshott. When she’d come home, she had been unable to face cooking anything for herself.
Having refuelled on a Danish and coffee at a service station, Della rejoined the motorway, a little nervous now. It’s okay, she reassured herself. This is no big deal at all. Monica’s just one of Mum’s friends from way back. She felt the need to remind herself why she was heading for the coast on this pink-skied Tuesday morning instead of tackling the enormous task of sorting the cookbooks into categories. It just felt important to meet Monica and find out what the Recipe Sharing Society had been all about. Once that was done, she would crack on with ordering her cash register and buying her brushes and paint, and pull together a PR plan for her grand opening party as Charlotte had urged to do: writing a press release and mailing it to local papers and radio stations. She would then commence the mind-boggling task of pricing the books, and snap on a pair of Marigolds and scrub the place down – not to mention sprucing up Rosemary Cottage in preparation for the estate agent’s valuation. Keep busy, busy, busy: that seemed to be the way in which she would avoid obsessing over Polly Fisher, or reporting her husband to the ICP.
Kinnet Cove was in view now, a string of whitewashed cottages dotted sparsely along the straight, narrow road that followed the coast. The sea was a glittering silver, dotted with bobbing dinghies and small fishing boats, the sky a wash of pale blue still daubed with pink. Della slowed down as she entered the village and passed the cottages, mostly holiday lets by the look of it, all facing the sea. There was a small general store, not even open yet, another shop selling wetsuits, and a tearoom with lacy net curtains, which looked as if they were long overdue a boil wash. There wasn’t a single person in sight.
They had been here, Della remembered now: Kitty and the three children. As their father hadn’t come, Kitty had had to drive. She had never seemed entirely comfortable behind the wheel, which might have explained her ill humour that day. She had seemed distracted, Della recalled now, as if somehow resenting the fact that she had found herself in a nondescript fishing village, even though it must have been her idea to come. Della vaguely recalled her mother setting off ‘to find ice creams’ and returning hours later, claiming that she’d got lost. Perhaps she had snuck off to see her old friend Monica, and hadn’t wanted three damp, sandy children tagging along and spoiling her fun.
Della was aware of her arrival being noted as she pulled up outside Garnet Cottage. She assessed the place as she climbed out of her car: a well-kept house painted a pale buttermilk shade, its tidy front garden filled with neatly trimmed shrubs and ceramic pots. The short path to the faded green front door was made from sea-worn pebbles and broken shells. She pressed the bell, and the door was swiftly opened by a woman so tall and elegant – all cheekbones and piercing bright blue eyes – that Della was momentarily lost for words.
‘Della, hello, do come in.’
‘Thank you. It’s good to meet you, Monica.’ Della followed her into a small hall, its walls covered with so many framed paintings – no, not paintings but pieces of printed fabrics – that there were hardly any gaps in between. ‘Let’s sit in here and have some tea,’ Monica added, padding bare-foot into the living room overlooking the sea. ‘Do make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a minute.’
‘Thank you,’ Della said, perching on a faded rust-coloured corduroy-covered couch as Monica swept out of the room. Could this vital, youthful-looking woman really be one of Kitty’s friends from their recipe-sharing days? Della scanned the crammed bookshelves and the knick-knacks cluttering the carved wooden mantelpiece.
Monica reappeared with a tarnished metal tray bearing a mishmash of china, plus slices of cake. Her long, silvery hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore black leggings and some sort of sports top with a voluminous flecked grey cardigan thrown on top. A fisherman’s cardi, Della decided, but on Monica’s lithe frame it looked sort of bohemian, thrown on to warm herself after a run. Although Della supposed she was well into her sixties, it was tricky to pinpoint her age. She poured strong, dark tea into dainty flower-patterned cups and arranged herself in an armchair with her small feet tucked under her.
‘So, Della,’ she started, ‘you found that memo. That must have been quite … a surprise.’
Della lifted a cup from the tray. ‘It was, yes, because Mum had never mentioned it. But I suppose there’s no reason why she should have, really. I mean, I was only a little girl then and she probably got up to all sorts of things that I was never aware of.’
A wry smile crossed Monica’s fine-boned face. ‘You haven’t been able to contact anyone else from the list?’
‘No, although I’ve only had a look through her address book. I haven’t done any proper hunting around yet. I suppose I could Google the names, maybe try and arrange some kind of reunion …’ Della smiled, and Monica laughed tightly.
‘Why does it interest you, this society?’
Della sipped her tea, taken aback by the question. Monica was regarding her intently, her face tilted slightly upwards, her blue eyes fixed directly on Della’s. ‘Well, as I mentioned on the phone, I’m opening a bookshop. Mum’s cookbooks sparked the whole idea really. I mean, I couldn’t keep them in the house. There are nearly a thousand, they were driving everyone mad …’
‘Everyone?’
‘Well, my daughter Sophie wasn’t too sure at first but she’s off doing her own thing now. She’d just started at art college.’
‘Really?’ Monica’s eyes gleamed with interest, and Della glanced around the living room which, like the hallway, was entirely decorated with framed fabrics in exuberant prints, some embroidered, others embellished with wispy feathers and sparking beads. The effect was quite stunning.
‘She’s a very talented painter,’ Della explained. ‘But really, it was my husband who objected to the books.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘We’ve just split up,’ she added.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Monica leaned forward, her aloof expression softened by concern now.
‘Well, I’m fine,’ Della said briskly. ‘Or at least, I will be. You know how it is. Well, you probably don’t …’
‘I’m sure it’s been very difficult, Della.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, it has, and I probably still don’t know what to make of it. I mean, it hasn’t really had time to sink in, you know? I’m not sure it ever will. So right now, I’m trying to focus on getting the shop together. You see, I’ve just left my job – I worked in Heathfield Castle gift shop – so I need to get things up and running as quickly as possible …’ She stopped and delved into her bag for the memo, which she handed to Monica. ‘This is what I found. Look, there’s your name.’
Monica reached to the coffee table for a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles and slipped them on. Della watched as she scanned the list of names, then turned the memo over and read the hand-written note on the back. ‘I don’t know what that means,’ Della said, with an awkward laugh.
‘“Yours affectionately, R.’”
‘Yes. D’you have any idea who that could be?’
Monica placed the memo on the table between them and drank her tea. ‘Well, I think that was probably Rafael.’
‘Rafael? Who was that?’
She caught Monica glancing distractedly out of the window and followed her gaze to the expanse of silvery sea. She had done this all wrong, Della realised. Obviously, the Recipe Sharing Society was a delicate matter; she should have built up to it and chosen her moment with care, the way she planned to when she drove over to Leeds to take Sophie to lunch and tell her that her parents weren’t together anymore. She should have taken time to get to know Monica first, asking her about the beautiful textiles in reds and pinks and golds that filled this welcoming cottage; it felt so different to Kitty’s place, which had faded as the years had rolled by. Now, she could sense that Monica wanted her to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ Della ventured. ‘I don’t mean to pry. If it’s something personal between you and Mum, and you really don’t want to go into it … I mean, the first time I called, the man who answered said you weren’t here.’
Monica cleared her throat. ‘It’s very difficult to explain, Della.’
She inhaled deeply. ‘If you want to say something about Mum that’s not exactly – well, not especially complimentary, then that’s okay. I’m sort of used to it. I had all that at her funeral tea, you know. I mean, the locals, the people who’d known her for decades – they were affectionate enough. But there was also lots of, “Oh, wasn’t she a character? Didn’t like to get on Kitty’s bad side!”’ Della was babbling now, trying to fill the awkward silence.
‘Yes, I do remember what Kitty was like.’
Della drained her cup and placed it back on the tray. ‘Monica … I think I’ll just go now. It was good of you to see me and I’m sorry if, well …’ She picked up the memo and slipped it back into her bag. ‘If this is stirring up something unpleasant for you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ she insisted as Della got up to leave. It wasn’t fine, though. Monica made no move to persuade her visitor to stay.
‘I’ll see you out then,’ she said coolly.
‘Thank you again,’ Della said. She felt Monica’s eyes fixed on her from the doorway as she crunched her way back along the shell-and-pebble path and climbed into her car. She waved briefly and Monica flapped a hand in response, then disappeared back into the house. As Della turned the ignition key she wondered why she had agreed to see her in the first place.
She indicated, and as she started to pull away something caught her eye. Monica had reappeared and was waving – properly waving now – from her front door. Della stopped the car. And now Monica – no longer barefoot but in trainers – was striding along the path towards her. Phone, purse, bag? Della wondered what it was she’d forgotten. Hardly surprising she’d left something behind; she’d felt so tense in there.
‘Della?’ Monica bent at the driver’s side window. Della turned off the ignition and opened the door.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, it’s fine … well, actually, no, it’s not. I’ve dragged you all the way here and been terribly rude and I’m so sorry.’
Della studied her face, the cheekbones high and pronounced, the eyes elongated and full of intelligence. ‘You weren’t rude, Monica, but I felt that perhaps you didn’t want to rake over the past.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘Please, park the car again and come back inside with me. No, in fact, it’s a beautiful day – could we go for a walk, do you think? Would you like that? There are a few things I need to explain.’
As they set off along the roadside, Della decided just to listen this time, at least until it felt okay to ask a question. She glanced at Monica, who was striding along at quite a pace, her legs long and slender, her ponytail flapping in the light breeze. ‘It wasn’t what I expected,’ she ventured, ‘seeing you.’
Della didn’t know what to make of this. ‘What did you expect?’ And who is – or was – Rafael? she wanted to ask. She focused instead on the waves lapping at the pebbly beach to their right.
‘It’s probably easier to explain,’ said Monica, a little hesitant now, ‘if I tell you about your mother and me.’
‘I’d really like that,’ Della said.
‘Well, you know Kitty was a seamstress? We both were.’
‘Yes, I knew Mum was. She made all our clothes when we were little. Of course we would have preferred them to be bought from C&A or Miss Selfridge, like all the other kids’ clothes.’ She smiled at the memory and glanced at Monica. ‘All we wanted were our clothes to have shop labels in. But we didn’t dare say, of course.’
‘No, I can imagine.’ Monica chuckled, and Della started to relax. ‘When we first started out, your mother and I worked for a theatre company. Did you know that too?’
‘I didn’t,’ Della admitted. ‘Mum never seemed particularly keen to talk about those days.’
‘Well, we’d both have been nineteen or twenty. We did all the costumes, dressed the sets, took care of repairs and alterations – it was a lovely time.’ Monica smiled.
‘Had she met my dad then?’ Della asked.
‘Er, they were sort of seeing each other, you know. Kitty was a very popular girl in those days.’ Della looked at Monica, thinking, Bet you were too. There was something ageless about Monica, she decided: rangy and shimmering with life. So she was Kitty’s age – mid-seventies -–yet had already been for a run that morning, and was now walking at a purposeful pace as if she could keep going all day. Despite the faded running top and leggings and that ratty old cardi, she exuded more glamour and style than any of the baby-complexioned models in Roxanne’s magazine.
‘We were close friends at that time,’ Monica went on. ‘Very close. Like sisters, really.’
‘It seems such a shame you lost touch,’ Della ventured. ‘What happened after the theatre company?’
‘Oh, I retrained as a teacher and taught art for many years, but then I wanted more time to do my own thing so I started on my textiles, took some classes, started to get the occasional commission …’
What happened with you and Mum? Della had meant, but now she was picturing the blaze of beautiful framed fabrics in Monica’s cottage. ‘They’re lovely, the ones I saw in your house. So vibrant. Do you sell them?’
‘Oh, I dabble a little,’ Monica said, a trace of amusement in her voice. Della wondered how to swerve the conversation back to Kitty – or, more specifically, Kitty and Rafael. Cautious after getting off to a shaky start, she decided to proceed with care.
‘So, er … you were still in touch with Mum when she got married?’
‘Yes, I was one of the witnesses at her wedding.’
‘Oh, that’s you, in the photo! Outside the register office, I mean. It’s the only picture I’ve ever seen of my parents’ wedding.’ And who was the man you were with? she wanted to ask, but Monica cut in.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but Kitty was already pregnant then with her first child.’
‘With Jeff? Are you sure?’
‘I’m absolutely sure.’
Della inhaled the sharp, salty air. ‘I never knew that. I suppose I could have worked it out, if I’d known their wedding date – but then, Mum was always pretty vague about it and it didn’t seem important to know.’ Della paused. ‘That was quite scandalous in those days, wasn’t it? A pregnant bride, I mean?’
‘Not for us,’ said Monica quickly. ‘Not amongst the friends we associated with, the theatre people. It didn’t matter a bit.’
‘But they did get married,’ Della pointed out.
‘Yes, rather hurriedly, just a tiny service at Wood Green Register office, only two guests.’
‘You and …’
‘Me and Rafael, yes.’
Della gave her a quick look. Rafael – Mr-yours-affectionately-R – had been at her parents’ wedding, as a witness presumably. Did that mean he had been Monica’s partner back then? She strode on briskly, seeming not to have noticed that his name had slipped out. ‘It was William who wanted to get married,’ she added.
‘To make an honest woman out of Kitty?’
Monica smoothed back her ponytail. ‘Yes, something like that.’
‘Well, Dad was pretty traditional,’ Della remarked. ‘But surely she must have wanted to marry him too? You know how strong-minded she was. I don’t think I ever saw Mum doing something she didn’t want to do.’
They walked in silence for a few moments, following the path away from the beach now and into the gently undulating hills behind the village. Della had no idea where they were going and it didn’t feel important to know. ‘Kitty did plenty of things she didn’t want to do,’ Monica murmured.
Della looked at her. ‘D’you mean … marrying my dad?’ She pictured her mother in that photograph, standing close to William but with her attention clearly elsewhere.
‘It was only because of the baby, Della.’
She nodded, wondering now if Kitty had resented that ceremony, even the baby growing inside her, and felt a twinge of pity for Jeff. ‘You know, you can’t tell Mum’s pregnant in that picture. I assume it was quite early on …’
‘Oh, she was showing by then, but her dress was made by an excellent dressmaker.’ Monica smiled, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten.
‘You made Mum’s wedding dress?’
‘Well, yes. It wasn’t a wedding dress as such. Kitty hadn’t wanted that.’
‘Yes, I can picture it. White lace, a simple shift shape. I always wondered what happened to it.’ Della paused and looked at Monica. ‘Er, it was William’s baby, wasn’t it? I mean, William is Jeff’s dad?’
‘Yes, of course he is, darling!’
Darling. This felt as if they had moved on somehow, and now Della thought: To hell with it. She needed to know and, as she might never see Monica again, she might as well ask the question that was burning inside her. ‘Monica, can I just ask …’ She looked around at the sweeping hills and Kinnet Cove behind them, now bathed in bright morning sunshine. ‘Even though Mum was pregnant then, was she really in love with someone else?’ And of course I mean Rafael, but I can’t bring myself to say it …
Monica looked at her as they stopped at a bench, and indicated for Della to sit beside her. ‘I hope it’s all right to tell you all of this. I know it’s probably not what you came here for, but it’s part of it all. I worry that you might find it rather shocking.’
Della looked past Monica at the hills dotted with farmhouses and swathes of dark forest. She wasn’t a naturally shockable person, and now, a mere two days since she had seen her husband fall into another woman’s arms, she wasn’t sure that anything would ever shock her again. ‘I’d rather you just told me everything … so, how d’you think my dad felt about all of that?’
She paused. ‘Oh, William was utterly devoted to your mother, you know.’
‘But … he left her, Monica. He left her for Jane, a woman he worked with, when I was about ten years old.’
Monica poked at the earth with the toe of her trainer. ‘Maybe he’d had enough. You could hardly blame him, I suppose.’
‘Enough of what?’
‘Enough of Kitty being in love with Rafael.’
Della frowned. Was that why her father had run off with ‘that woman’, as she was forever known in Rosemary Cottage? The two women sat side by side, the sun warming their faces as the cool morning opened up into a beautiful autumn day. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ Della said hesitantly, ‘you and Rafael … were you together back then?’
‘Oh, yes, we still are really.’
Della blinked at her. ‘Is he your husband?’ She held her breath, relaxing again as Monica chuckled and shook her head.
‘No, dear, I’ve never have one of those. We’re very fond of each other but I can’t live with him. I tried it … ugh!’ She shuddered dramatically. ‘Couldn’t be doing with him being around, hovering about, insisting on reading things to me from the newspaper …’ It sounded lovely, Della thought. ‘So we are sort of together … but not.’ Monica’s face softened and, almost as if she could read the question hovering on Della’s lips – ‘So, Kitty and Rafael were having an affair?’ – answered it for her.
‘You see the Recipe Sharing Society was an excuse your mother conjured up. Something to go to, you see, so she could be with him. It was easier for Raff – we each did our own thing, he had all the space and freedom he could have wished for, and so did I.’ Della nodded, willing her to go on. ‘But your mother … well, especially after the baby arrived – Kitty needed an alibi.’
Della focused ahead on the scattering of creamy stone cottages dotted sparingly around the hills. A plume of smoke rose slowly from a chimney, and the soft rolling Yorkshire landscape was bathed in bright autumn light. ‘A kind of decoy activity,’ she murmured. Like Mark and his golf. Something to go to, to make the affair possible – and with Kitty’s collection of cookbooks it would have seemed quite plausible. Just popping out to a Recipe Sharing Society Meeting, darling. I’ll cook you something nice when I get home …
‘Very perceptive, Della,’ Monica said with a wry smile. ‘That’s exactly what it was. Now, you see that old wrecked-looking farmhouse down in the valley there? The one with the red roof, looks like a gust of wind could blow the place down?’
Della peered in the direction Monica was pointing. ‘Yes, I see it.’
‘That’s where Raff lives.’
‘Really?’ she exclaimed. ‘Can we visit him?’ She leaped up from the bench like an eager child.
‘Not today, I’m afraid. He’s away in Spain – that’s where he’s from. Grew up in Valencia, still has cousins there. He’s away a few more days.’
‘Another time then? I’d really love to meet him.’ Della steeled herself for a brisk response and wondered again whether she had overstepped the mark.
‘Oh, yes, you should do that,’ Monica said. ‘I think it’s very important that you two meet.’