Chapter 19

Heroically Jess attempted to continue the conversation in a skittish, lighthearted way, even though her heart lay shattered into three thousand pieces at her feet. No, four thousand. Eat your heart out, Thomas Hardy.

‘Oh, right. OK! Thanks! It was nothing urgent!’ said Jess, trying to sound carefree and relaxed. So Fred hadn’t sold the Riverdene tickets after all! What a liar. She felt sick, sick, sick.

‘Are you having a lovely time?’ asked Fred’s mum.

‘Yes,’ said Jess, between clenched teeth. ‘It’s brilliant! Sorry – I have to go now – I’m running out of credit.’

She hung up. As she put the mobile back in her pocket, she heard her mother’s footsteps up above. She came carefully down the wet stone stairs. Jess hoped she hadn’t overheard the phone call.

‘Oh, Jess!’ said Mum, as she arrived at the bottom of the tower. ‘There you are! I thought I’d lost you. What’s the matter, love? You look pale.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Jess, trying to hide her shaking hands. Fred and Flora, together at Riverdene! ‘I just . . .’ She scrambled for an explanation. ‘I felt a bit odd down here, that’s all.’

‘Let’s go up and get a cup of tea in the little cafe,’ said Mum. ‘That’ll put you right.’

How typical of Mum, Jess thought. The idea that a cup of brown water is going to bring me back from the edge of madness.

They sat down outside the tiny cafe by the entrance, and Jess had a cup of hot chocolate. It might not perform therapeutic miracles, but it was certainly more interesting than tea.

‘That tower – the one you were in – is called St Margaret’s Tower,’ said Mum, consulting the guidebook. ‘It’s one of the oldest parts of the castle. And the tower, it says here, is allegedly haunted by the “White Lady”, the ghost of Lady Margaret Pomeroy who, according to legend, was imprisoned here by her jealous sister, Lady Eleanor. Several people claim to have seen her or felt her presence in the tower. So maybe it was the White Lady who spooked you down there.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jess. It was interesting that the tower had been the scene of intense hostility between sisters, though. If Flora stole Fred, Jess would immediately rent a concrete mixer and wall her up alive. Not for her whole life necessarily. Just until she started to lose her looks. Although knowing Flora’s luck, she would still be ravishingly beautiful at ninety.

After the cup of hot chocolate, Jess made a massive effort and assured her mum that she had fully recovered from her haunting.

‘I don’t believe in ghosts anyway,’ said Mum firmly as they walked back to the car.

‘Mum! You’re glued to repeats of Most Haunted every chance you get!’ said Jess. ‘You’re a sucker for all that stuff.’ Jess was thinking how easy it was to be haunted by one’s two best friends in broad daylight. She could see them clearly right now, frolicking flirtatiously at Riverdene.

‘Goodness, are you back already?’ said Granny as they arrived at the car. ‘I had a lovely talk with a woman who was walking her dog. He was called Bosun and apparently he’s fathered thirty-six pups. She showed me her pooper-scooper. It was a very stylish one. She said she’d bought it in New York.’

Mum climbed into the car and peered over her glasses at the road map.

‘What do you say?’ asked Mum. ‘Where shall we go next? What do you fancy? Garden history, a stately home or a zoo?’

‘I’m getting a bit tired, what with all this rambling about, dear,’ said Granny. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but I’d quite like to go somewhere and stay put for a bit. All this packing and unpacking is exhausting. I keep sleeping through the Six O’Clock News.’

‘I’d like to stay put somewhere, too,’ said Jess. ‘Somewhere by the sea.’ She was longing to go and sit and stare at the waves for hours and hours. And, possibly, throw herself in.

‘Couldn’t we go down to Mousehole?’ enquired Granny. Mousehole was a sweet little fishing village where she and Grandpa had had their honeymoon.

‘I want to go to Mousehole, too!’ said Jess. Even in the depths of her misery she still retained an affection for small fluffy rodents. Although rats were quite a different matter – especially if they were also one’s best friends. ‘Or even better – St Ives! I’m dying to see Dad.’

‘Well, I suppose we could go straight down to Penzance,’ said Mum. ‘That’s just next door to Mousehole. We could settle down there for the weekend. You two could hang around Penzance and Mousehole as much as you like, and I could drive back up the coast and have a look at the gardens and things by myself. It’s not far. I could easily make a day trip of it.’

‘Great idea, Mum!’ said Jess. ‘You know you always enjoy visiting gardens much more when you’re by yourself.’ Jess liked the idea of whole long solitary days by herself. It would make it much easier to be picturesquely miserable.

‘I do wish you’d get interested in gardens, though,’ sighed her mum.

‘Mum, get real! I’m a teenager, for goodness’ sake! If I was interested in gardens at my age I would be some kind of social misfit!’

Mum made some phone calls and sorted out the accommodation – she had a mobile for emergencies, although she always held it some distance away from her head to avoid brain damage. So stylish. Then they drove off from the haunted castle – Jess had a last look at it, over her shoulder – and within half an hour they came to a dual carriageway down which cars were whooshing with carefree speed.

‘Can I have a look at the map, Granny?’ asked Jess. Mum didn’t need any more navigating now they were on the main road.

Granny passed the map back, and Jess picked it up and studied it. Penzance didn’t look very far from St Ives at all. Maybe, inspired by Granny’s example of romance in Cornwall, Mum and Dad would fall in love all over again.

Jess uttered a silent prayer. God, are you in charge of dating? If so, could you fix it so my mum and dad get together again? And we could all live by the sea in a big house with a huge dog called Boss. And please, please make Flora smell just awful, if you don’t mind. Just during Riverdene.

Although it might be a smart move to inflict dire body odour on Flora for the rest of her fabulous life.

‘I’ve been reading this guidebook,’ said Granny. ‘And it’s quite amusing. Guess what it says about Mousehole! The fishermen of Mousehole once had a reputation for smuggling, bad language, drunkenness and lechery which was envied by quieter men. He’s very interesting, this writer. What’s his name? Darrell Bates. Do you know him, dear?’

‘Only in my capacity as a librarian,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve never actually dated, or anything.’

‘If you could date a writer, any writer, who would it be?’ asked Jess.

‘Dead or alive?’ asked Mum.

‘Well, knowing you, Mum, dead would be first choice, obviously – but you could just force yourself for once and go out with somebody who still has a pulse.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mum, dismissing the whole of live mankind, ‘give me Shakespeare any day.’

So all Jess had to do was persuade her dad to shave his head, grow a beard, wear wrinkly tights and write several works of surpassing genius. It should be a piece of cake.