Mayhew was wittering on, I’d been in an agony of suspense about Ben. I didn’t know which of the cottages he lived in, and I half expected him to materialise beside us any moment. And then – oh God – he would see Danny and I would have to explain to my son that Ben lived here now. Everything would get hideously complicated and Danny would think my decision to stay in Polperro was even stranger than he’d imagined. Surely he would find my prior knowledge of Ben’s presence in the village inexplicable, even sinister. And he would feel he had to tell Adam, which didn’t bear thinking about. My husband would sweep down here in a fury, accusing me of going behind his back. Which I had done, but I wouldn’t have had to if he’d only agreed to meet Ben in the first place.
We left the Crumplehorn at a cracking pace, set by me. Danny and Mr Mayhew scurried to keep up. Of course, staying here in the village I knew I could bump into Ben at any time. Everyone here lived in each other’s pockets, used the same post office, the same newsagent’s, the same baker’s. But if I were on my own it wouldn’t matter so much. In fact it was an important part of my plan to make friends with Ben, to slowly gain his confidence so he would gradually reveal more details of Joey’s last day. If Adam was right and Ben was keeping something back. I was determined to discover what it was.
We walked swiftly down the main street, past the bed and breakfasts with their gaily painted front doors and the tiny ornamental bridges which led to each house, allowing B&B holiday guests to arrive with their feet dry as they picked their way gingerly across the little brook which ran through the whole village. After a few yards, Danny laughingly begged me to slow down, because he wanted to reminisce about our family walks along this small but tumbling stream when he and Joey were very small. They found it endlessly fascinating, and after we explained about the constant tiny waterfalls that interrupted the burbling water’s fast and furious flow, they would run ahead and stop at each one, shouting, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir as well?’ It drove us bonkers then, in an amused and indulgent kind of way, but looking back, what lovely times; how perfect and wonderful they were, those short and vivid parts of our lives. Unremarkable and trivial as they happen, we don’t yet understand that we should hold onto them, grab and engrave them on our hearts; because they are precious beyond rubies, and we shall remember and mourn them for the rest of our lives.
When we reached the post office we ignored the lane branching off to the right that led to the harbour and the Blue Peter. I marched swiftly straight ahead, glad not to have to see either of those haunted sites again, and soon after we’d passed the newsagent’s, we reached our destination. It was the Warren, a narrow lane of tiny cottages, some ornately decorated with seashells. I trembled slightly. Joey and Ben’s final ill fated holiday-let had been close to the Warren. My mind had blanked out the exact location, but I really didn’t want to stay anywhere so near.
A few doors on, Mr Mayhew stopped in front of a little whitewashed dwelling that looked charming and cosy, but some deep primitive instinct made me loathe it on sight. Eric Mayhew turned the key in the lock, opened the door and in we went, the agent cheerful and enthusiastic, me hesitant and reluctant.
‘Here we are, Mrs Gabriel. I’m sure you’ll agree that this little place is deeply romantic and very picturesque.’
I tuned him out, looking round with a dismay that was quite unreasonable. The cottage was pretty enough, with attractive interior stone walls painted white, what looked like amateur but jolly little pictures of fishing boats on the walls, and simple rustic furniture. There was a tiny but functional kitchen, and the whole place was immaculate and
We left the Crumplehorn at a cracking pace, set by me. Danny and Mr Mayhew scurried to keep up. Of course, staying here in the village I knew I could bump into Ben at any time. Everyone here lived in each other’s pockets, used the same post office, the same newsagent’s, the same baker’s. But if I were on my own it wouldn’t matter so much. In fact it was an important part of my plan to make friends with Ben, to slowly gain his confidence so he would gradually reveal more details of Joey’s last day. If Adam was right and Ben was keeping something back. I was determined to discover what it was.
We walked swiftly down the main street, past the bed and breakfasts with their gaily painted front doors and the tiny ornamental bridges which led to each house, allowing B&B holiday guests to arrive with their feet dry as they picked their way gingerly across the little brook which ran through the whole village. After a few yards, Danny laughingly begged me to slow down, because he wanted to reminisce about our family walks along this small but tumbling stream when he and Joey were very small. They found it endlessly fascinating, and after we explained about the constant tiny waterfalls that interrupted the burbling water’s fast and furious flow, they would run ahead and stop at each one, shouting, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir as well?’ It drove us bonkers then, in an amused and indulgent kind of way, but looking back, what lovely times; how perfect and wonderful they were, those short and vivid parts of our lives. Unremarkable and trivial as they happen, we don’t yet understand that we should hold onto them, grab and engrave them on our hearts; because they are precious beyond rubies, and we shall remember and mourn them for the rest of our lives.
When we reached the post office we ignored the lane branching off to the right that led to the harbour and the Blue Peter. I marched swiftly straight ahead, glad not to have to see either of those haunted sites again, and soon after we’d passed the newsagent’s, we reached our destination. It was the Warren, a narrow lane of tiny cottages, some ornately decorated with seashells. I trembled slightly. Joey and Ben’s final ill fated holiday-let had been close to the Warren. My mind had blanked out the exact location, but I really didn’t want to stay anywhere so near.
A few doors on, Mr Mayhew stopped in front of a little whitewashed dwelling that looked charming and cosy, but some deep primitive instinct made me loathe it on sight. Eric Mayhew turned the key in the lock, opened the door and in we went, the agent cheerful and enthusiastic, me hesitant and reluctant.
‘Here we are, Mrs Gabriel. I’m sure you’ll agree that this little place is deeply romantic and very picturesque.’
I tuned him out, looking round with a dismay that was quite unreasonable. The cottage was pretty enough, with attractive interior stone walls painted white, what looked like amateur but jolly little pictures of fishing boats on the walls, and simple rustic furniture. There was a tiny but functional kitchen, and the whole place was immaculate and
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