Homecomings Read online

  There is a silence.

  ‘Was that the “Widmung”?’ Ned asks at last. He clears his throat to hide the emotion in his voice. ‘I didn’t know you could play the Liszt arrangement. I’m impressed.’

  Hugo is murmuring deprecatingly that it isn’t really up to standard, that he wouldn’t want to attempt it in public, and Dossie continues to stare out of the window, trying to control her emotions, her confusion, and to prevent herself from bursting into tears.

  Suddenly the front door slams, a voice calls, the dogs bark, and Hugo gets up from the piano. The tension begins to dissolve and at last Dossie turns to look at him.

  ‘That was … awesome.’

  She knows that Hugo is not deceived by this deliberately foolish word, that he sees how much she is moved, and he nods, slightly embarrassed but pleased. Ned looks at her anxiously, aware of her mood. She smiles back at him, nods as if to say: ‘It’s OK. I’m all right,’ and he gives a little nod in return.

  ‘Let’s have that coffee,’ he says. ‘Prune’s home.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PRUNE KNEELS DOWN to embrace Brioc’s welcoming and enthusiastic licks whilst Mort butts her with his head and whines joyfully.

  ‘A good day in the greenhouse?’ enquires Hugo. ‘A nice supper in Padstow?’ and Prune beams at him.

  She feels happy, wanting to laugh and sing: life is good. How much of this is due to Ben turning up unexpectedly at the gardens this afternoon after his lunchtime shift at The Chough, of his coming to find her in the greenhouses and inviting her to a gig at the weekend at a pub in Wadebridge, she doesn’t want to analyse too clearly. She really likes him – his readiness to laugh and joke, his directness and quick responsiveness – but she doesn’t want to look overkeen: she’s known him for only a few weeks and she’s made that mistake before.

  ‘We saved some bread-and-butter pudding for you,’ says Dossie, following Hugo into the kitchen with Ned behind her. ‘But you probably won’t want any if you’ve been pigging out on fish and chips.’

  Prune gives her a hug. She has become so fond of Dossie, who seems a part of the set-up here and who has a kind of agelessness about her that makes her feel like a mate. Prune feels really lucky to have got the job with the National Trust, after her two-year course at Bicton College, and to be part of the little team involved in growing the food that will be used in the café. They are all young, excited and enthusiastic about it. But then it’s good, too, to come back here and chill with Hugo and Ned – and Dossie when she’s around.

  ‘It was really good,’ she says. ‘There was live music and the band was amazing. I am full up but I don’t want anyone pinching my bit of bread-and-butter pudding. I’ll save it for tomorrow.’

  ‘Take note,’ Dossie says warningly to Ned and Hugo.

  ‘We wouldn’t mess with Prune,’ says Hugo at once. ‘She wields a mean pair of secateurs!’

  Prune makes a face at him, and she wonders – just very quickly – how it might be to bring Ben here and to introduce him to this odd group of people and whether he’d be intimidated by them, although she doesn’t really imagine that Ben is easily intimidated.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit like living with your father and your grandfather?’ he asked when she described the set-up to him.

  She thought about it for a moment then shook her head.

  ‘No, it isn’t, actually. They’re sort of not like that. Hugo worked as a producer of documentaries at the BBC and he’s seriously cool. And Ned’s got a really sharp sense of humour. They’re just … well, people. You know? In the end age doesn’t seem to come into it much.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Sounds fun,’ he said.

  Even so, Prune can’t quite see herself bringing him here, not just yet. She needs to know him better; to feel more confident with him.

  Hugo is making coffee but he knows she won’t drink any this late in the day. He grins at her.

  ‘Nice brew of dock leaves?’ he asks. ‘Nettles? Root of dandelion?’

  It’s rather like having her older brothers around, teasing her, and she swings a punch at him.

  ‘At least I shall have a good night’s sleep,’ she retorts as she takes down her box of herbal teas from the cupboard. ‘What with all this late-night coffee and booze, it’s like living with students again.’

  ‘Now there’s a compliment,’ comments Ned.

  They all settle round the kitchen table and Prune feels Brioc collapse comfortably against her feet. She smiles, sighs with pleasure, and allows herself to feel happy and on the edge of falling in love. Hugo’s phone pings and he takes it out of his pocket.

  ‘Jamie,’ he says, ‘asking if he can come and stay. Hoping to get down quite soon.’

  ‘Of course he can come and stay,’ says Ned impatiently. ‘He knows he’s always welcome here. This is his home. How is he?’

  Prune watches the two men as Hugo taps out a reply. She hasn’t yet met Jamie, though Hugo has talked about him: how they were at school and uni together, how Jamie married soon after he arrived at RAF Lyneham, after he’d got his Wings, but that the marriage broke up a few years later. It’s clear from the way Hugo talks that Jamie is a bit of a hero to him, which she thinks is rather sweet. She’s looking forward to meeting him and seeing how he and Hugo act together. She can imagine that, despite the fact that Hugo and Jamie are in their fifties, it’ll be rather the way her brothers behave: joshing, insulting each other, sharing the in-jokes and phrases that go way back to childhood.

  ‘Not great,’ Hugo is saying, answering Ned’s question. ‘No change, apparently.’

  ‘Isn’t he well?’ Dossie asks, concerned.

  Prune knows that Dossie hasn’t met Jamie either but that she understands that he is important to Hugo and Ned. Hugo hesitates, as if he is deciding how much or little he should say.

  ‘He’s had these vertigo attacks,’ he says at last. ‘It started with a cold, then terrible dizziness. Actually falling over. Said he thought he was having a stroke. He had three in that first week. He was grounded, of course. Pilots are susceptible to colds, inner-ear infections, but nobody can pin this thing down. He hasn’t flown for more than a year.’

  ‘How terrible,’ says Dossie, shocked. ‘Quite awful for him.’

  ‘It’s utterly bloody,’ says Ned, quite violently. ‘One minute you’re a pilot. Next minute you’ve made your last flight without even knowing it. Utterly bloody.’

  He shakes his head almost as if he were in pain, as if he can’t believe the cruelties of life and, watching him, Prune remembers that Jamie is Ned’s late brother’s son and that Ned’s own son was killed on RFA Sir Galahad in the Falklands War. Jamie must be very special to him. Her eyes meet Dossie’s, and they exchange a glance that shares the concern they feel, and the helplessness. Neither of them knows what to say.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Hugo, trying for a more upbeat note, ‘he’s coming down to see us before too long. So that’s all good.’

  ‘In which case,’ says Dossie, quickly picking up on the positive tone in Hugo’s voice, ‘I’d better get the freezer filled. Give me that list, Hugo, and I’ll see what I can do. Does Jamie have any favourite puddings?’

  ‘Sticky toffee,’ Ned answers at once, and Prune is oddly touched that Ned should remember such a thing.

  She sips her peppermint tea whilst Dossie peers over Hugo’s shoulder, studying the list. Ned suggests additions, and Hugo writes them down. Prune’s attention drifts: she wonders what she might wear to go to the pub with Ben. Imperceptibly her spirits rise.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HUGO GOES OUT with Dossie to her car, followed by the dogs, who are about to have their last walk. As Hugo stands beside the car, one eye on the dogs, talking in a general way, he wishes he could summon up the courage to invite her out, to a film, to supper, to the pub, but at the same time feels an odd constraint. Dossie has become a chum so quickly, so unexpectedly, that it almost feels inappropriate to suggest it. He wishes – not for the first time – that he had Jam
ie’s style, his ease with women, but meanwhile he remains tongue-tied and when she says, ‘Isn’t that sunset amazing?’ he answers, ‘Joyous. Just joyous.’ Then they burst out laughing together.

  They both loved the TV comedy W1A, about the BBC, which Hugo promised her was so true to life he’d had to watch it from behind the sofa, and now the catchphrases have become part of their conversation.

  We can laugh together, thinks Hugo, watching her drive away. And that is very special.

  He calls to the dogs and climbs the track that leads up from the harbour to the cliffs, still thinking about Dossie. He knows that Uncle Ned considers him a wimp.

  ‘Ask her out,’ the older man cries impatiently. ‘Get tickets for something. She’s a damned attractive woman. What are you pussyfooting about for? She’s missing her parents and that boy of hers. Her whole life has changed round and she’s feeling rootless and lonely. She needs someone to anchor her, to get her focused. She should get married again.’

  Hugo’s tried to explain that though Dossie might be feeling these things she is nevertheless independent, has her work, her house, and she isn’t some princess in a fairy tale who needs rescuing by a prince so that they can get married and live happily ever after.

  ‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t have to be marriage,’ Uncle Ned observed thoughtfully, rather mischievously, and then he saw Hugo’s shocked expression and he began to laugh. ‘Yours is such a serious generation. Ah, well. Never mind.’

  Hugo pauses on the cliff path to look back to the west. The sun has set now but the low-flying tatters of clouds are streaked through with scarlet and gold and crimson, and the lights of a ship gleam far away on the horizon. The wind has dropped and he hears the sea’s unceasing swell and sigh as it pours itself against the black granite cliffs, running into the deep underground chambers far below his feet, and he can smell the faint nutty smell of the gorse that grows in tall banks beside the path. Mort barks and there is a flurry of paws on sandy earth as the dogs dash away after a rabbit.

  As he follows the dogs along the path, his thoughts run forward to the prospect of Jamie’s visit. Not long after his cousin had begun to have these terrible vertigo attacks he was given two weeks’ leave.

  ‘I’d drive down,’ he said to Hugo, ‘but to be honest I’m a bit worried about the driving with this condition, and the train makes it even worse.’

  ‘I’ll come to you,’ Hugo said at once. ‘How would that be? Just for a couple of nights.’

  Now, he stands quite still, hands in his pockets, remembering his shock at the sight of his tall, charismatic cousin coming out of his cottage in Witney to meet him, walking with a stick. The truth of his illness was far worse than he’d let on over the phone.

  ‘I know,’ said Jamie with a wry smile, seeing his expression. ‘I can’t walk straight and people laugh because they think I’m drunk. I wish! Can’t drive, though that may pass. Can’t ride a bike. Can’t fly.’

  The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable and Hugo did not know how to comfort him.

  There were more investigations during the next few months but there was no external evidence to go on, no effective tests available, no meaningful results. Meanwhile the weeks passed and all the while Jamie’s future prospects, his hopes to avoid retirement and continue in service, were vanishing. He had devoted his whole working life to his aircraft, to the Hercules; to understanding every aspect, every foible. He is – or rather he was – a valuable asset, worth keeping in harness past the normal retirement age. The possibility that he might never fly a Herc again is unthinkable.

  ‘And you know what’s worse than that?’ he said to Hugo, one evening later during that stay. ‘Because there are no answers it makes you begin to think it’s all in your own mind. OK, yes, I know it isn’t. I know these symptoms are real enough but that’s what it feels like sometimes. And that’s a very black and dangerous path to go down.’

  As Hugo stands watching the stars pricking out in the eastern sky, his heart is wrenched with pain for his cousin. It will be so good to see him. At least there will be an opportunity to nourish him, to try to help him: he’ll be coming home to them after more than a year.

  Homecomings. Hugo thinks of Dossie going back to her empty, silent house and instinctively he pulls out his phone and texts her. Then he calls to the dogs and turns back along the path.

  As Dossie drives home, travelling eastwards towards St Endellion, she too can see the glimmer of stars above the distant bony scrawl of Rough Tor. Thoughts blunder in her head like moths around a candle: Hugo’s magical playing, Prune’s instinctive hug, Ned’s outburst against the random cruelties of life. She wonders if she will be invited to meet Jamie. She knows that she will feel a little bit hurt if she isn’t, though she knows, too, that there is no requirement on Ned and Hugo’s part to make the gesture. But she’s looking forward to meeting Jamie. A few things that Hugo told her about him have already aroused her interest.

  ‘He has the need for speed,’ he told her. ‘That’s one of his expressions. “I feel the need. The need for speed.”’

  ‘Top Gun,’ she says at once. ‘Mike loved that film.’

  She and Hugo began to sing ‘Take My Breath Away’ and then burst out laughing together.

  ‘He mocks our ancient Volvo,’ Hugo said ruefully. ‘He’s got a classic MGB roadster and he really canes it. God, he loves that car. He’s even fitted it with a CD player.’

  It was then she told Hugo about Mike and his passion for racing – cars, boats, motorbikes – and how he’d died. Hugo looked shocked. He hadn’t known the details of Mike’s death.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said gently. ‘It sounds as if he and Jamie would have had a lot in common.’

  He sounded almost wistful and she guessed that he was remembering times when this glamorous cousin had been something of a threat, though Hugo is a very attractive man and must have made quite a few conquests of his own. She thinks about Jamie, and the cruel stroke of fate that is threatening his career, and Ned’s outburst.

  Dossie’s never been invited to supper before – many coffee or tea moments, but not supper – and she suspects that the invitation came from Ned.

  ‘We must do this more often,’ he said as he gave her a farewell hug. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’

  She held his tall, bony frame tightly for a moment and then began to laugh. ‘It’s only my bread-and-butter pudding you’re after,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’m deceived.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ he said at once, releasing her, looking down at her. ‘There’s your banoffee pie. That amazing trifle you make …’

  Dossie smiles to herself, remembering. It’s odd that it should be so good to be with the two of them; not as wife or mother, nor as sister or daughter, but simply as herself. There is no commitment here, no responsibility, except that of a friend, an equal. Because there is no shared past there is all the novelty of learning about these two, of discovering new things. Soon she will invite them to The Court, cook a meal for them, move the relationship forward a little.

  She is well aware of Hugo’s dilemma: that he cannot decide whether or not to invite her out. Part of her hopes he won’t. Despite that odd moment of attraction she felt when he was playing, she fears it might spoil things – change the dynamic of the relationship between the three of them – and she has no wish to hurt him. She suspects that deep down he feels the same: that vital spark is absent.

  As she puts the car away, then lets herself into the house bracing herself against the silence and the emptiness, a message pings in and she opens her phone to look at it. It’s from Hugo:

  It was a great evening. Thanks for being a part of it. Let’s all do lunch at the pub soon. x

  Dossie stands in the hall, staring at the message, knowing that he’d been thinking of her coming into the house alone and she marvels at the love that comes from unexpected quarters. She goes into the warm kitchen, switches on the lights, dumps her bag on the long, ancient oak table, and loo
ks around at the familiar references of her life: Mo’s much-beloved hand-painted tea plates ranged along the dresser shelf, Pa’s set of four sketches of sailing boats on the wall beside the Aga, on the windowsill a blue pottery vase that Clem made at school, a photograph on the bookshelf of a much younger Jakey holding Wolfie in his arms.

  Dossie pours a glass of water and stands drinking at the sink, staring out into the darkness. She puts down the glass, takes her phone and taps out a text:

  It was great. Yes please. I’d love to. x

  She finishes her water, picks up her bag, turns out the light and goes upstairs to bed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROSE PENGELLY LETS herself into the house, calls out her usual ‘H’ya’ and hangs her jacket on a peg. The dogs come skittering down the stairs and she pats them, then drives them before her along the passage.

  ‘Only me,’ she calls up the stairs, and hears Ned’s shout in response.

  She’s guessed Hugo’s out – no car outside – and often these days he goes shopping alone. Ned’s not too nifty since he had his hip done. Rose goes into the kitchen and looks round her, deciding what to do; where to start. Definitely the kitchen first, she decides: it’s in a right old muddle. The bathrooms next; then a quick vacuum round. Rose shoos the dogs to their baskets, then collects cloths and cleaning fluid, the dustpan and brush, and beeswax polish from the cupboard under the sink. It’s a big house, there’s plenty to do, but she’s still managing to keep up with it. Not much has changed in this kitchen since she started work here more than forty years ago, after Admiral Sir Matthew retired and he and Lady Tremayne moved to Cornwall.