Page 1 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay
Prologue
Imagine you are a seagull. Every day you swoop and glide, enjoying a panoramic view of the earth below. As a breed, you’re famed more for your sandwich-snatching than your cultural sensitivity. But surely even you couldn’t help but be bowled over by the magical vista Pencarrow Bay offers as it spreads out beneath your wings.
Nestled on the south Cornish coast, within a leisurely ferry ride of Falmouth and encircled by the famous South West Coast Path, the bay– previously a fishing village– is a gem, a rare place of seaside beauty and tranquillity in this crazy, upside-down world.
Over the centuries, a variety of dwellings has crept up from the fishermen’s cottages clustered around the harbour to cover the surrounding hills. Raked like theatre seats for a view of the sea– coloured in white, pastel pinks and blues, sometimes slate grey, in one case a curious dark green– the houses dot the slopes in picturesque confusion, as much a part of the landscape as the palm trees that flourish as a result of the area’s unusual microclimate.
The bay also boasts a small shingle cove edged with rocks, on which sits a famous mermaid. Morvoren, serene and untroubled by the slapping waves that assault her at every high tide, has been carved into the grey granite of the cliff by the ancient, unseen hand of Nature. Her smooth, curving tail is said to bestow success in love and fertilityon any who touch it. On the other side of the bay a wider, sandier beach is better for swimming, although jelly-shoes are advisable to traverse the band of pebbles and small rocks before the finer sand kicks in.
Yachts and other craft bob in the shelter of the harbour during summer, watched over by the majestic working lighthouse on the east corner of the headland, with Pencarrow Castle on the west. The ‘castle’ is, in fact, no more than a draughty ruin, ‘built as a sixteenth-century fortification’, the visitors’ legend explains. It has stunning views across the sound to Falmouth– which would have been no consolation for the poor soldiers sent to defend a place so regularly blasted by the elements. Although they might have appreciated a cup of fresh-ground coffee from Ted’s cute, sky-blue converted Citroën van, named Henri, which now stands in the castle car park.
At sunrise, the west of the village– with the swanky Samson George hotel, the sailing club and the less than swanky wooden pasty hut by the harbour wall– is bathed in a delicate, silvery brightness as dawn light is reflected off the sea. At sunset the east of the village, with Fitzroy’s pub, Morvoren’s smooth, stony cheek and the dinky blue-painted ferry moored for the night, glows with the red-gold warmth of the setting sun… as long as it’s not raining, of course.
The fishermen and their families who inhabited the cottages for generations are now long gone. In their place is a motley selection of residents, whom the few surviving born-and-bred Cornish still living there term ‘emmets’– incomers or blow-ins– mostly comprising tourists and second-home owners, retirees.
And we must not forget the piskies, the fairy people who have dwelled in the bay and on the surrounding hills since the beginning of time. Folklore has it that they first came over perched on the shoulders of the saints, like StJust, invading Cornwall from Ireland for reasons known only to themselves. Nobody can agree on the appearance of these spirits. Wrinkled old men just three foot tall… or no bigger than your thumb. Clad in rags… or smartly dressed in red, green and brown. Helpful and benign… or mischievous and prankish. Cynics, beware: dismiss these fairy creatures at your peril.
Last but not least are the ubiquitous seagulls. Like the piskies, they get mixed reviews. You cannot imagine the British seaside without their raucous squawking and shrieking overhead, their scarily sharp bills and strutting march across the sand on their huge webbed feet, the endless representations of them on mugs and tea-towels. You’d expect their diet to be mainly fish and molluscs, of course, but guard your bacon sarnie with your life: Pencarrow’s seagull gang-master, Colin, will scope every café table, every unguarded ice-cream cone, every open carton of salty chips, with his beady yellow eyes. His troops– a crack force, fiercely trained– will hover innocently, then swoop when Colin gives the nod, their powerful wings terrifyingly violent and full in your face. Chips, sandwiches, scones with cream and jam: all ready-meals for seagulls. Pencarrow villagers love and hate the birds.
The bay is generally acknowledged by all to be a truly magical place to live. The human residents enjoy the very best of beauty and tranquillity, plus the cosiness of close friendships, the sparkle of sun on sea, bracing coastalwalks with a warm pasty nestling in your day-pack, a peaceful sunset sail where you might glimpse a dolphin leaping in the waves, golden scones loaded with rich clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. But they are not immune to the usual vicissitudes of life by virtue of their location. Pencarrow Bay might be their home, but it is also a designated tourist village. Heaving in summer. Isolated, empty, shuttered and regularly damp in winter. Strong community spirit; potentially claustrophobic and gossip-ridden.
It would be unbelievable if everyone lucky enough to live there was blissfully happy all day long, as the exceptional setting might suggest, demand, even…
1
Peggy woke to Ted’s kiss brushing her bare shoulder. She’d been vaguely aware earlier, as she dozed, of him rummaging for his clothes, then dropped back to sleep, knowing he would be off for his morning run around the bay. Now she turned over and smiled up at him.
‘It’s so beautiful out there, sweetheart,’ Ted said. ‘Pop down later, if you fancy. Pam promised to make those lemon and blueberry tarts you love. I’ll save you one.’ He’d changed from his running gear into jeans and a navy T-shirt, which showed off his toned chest and lean, tanned arms.
Peggy reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. She loved him so much.Miss youwere the words she didn’t say. He was only going down the hill to the car park on the headland beside the castle, barely ten minutes’ walk. It would be a ridiculous statement and she smiled inwardly at her foolishness. But he would be away, totally absorbed in his work– or ‘passion’, you might better call it– until at least four thirty, then potentially sucked into an evening sail or a hike to the lighthouse. Henri, the sixties Citroën truck, painted a fetching sky-blue, which Ted had converted to sell his coffee and buns, was, Peggy often mused resignedly, the third person in their relationship, these days.
At least she had something different to do this morning. ‘Lindy McDonald has invited me to a coffee morninglater– something about raising money for the village hall roof,’ were the words she said, as she reluctantly withdrew her hand from Ted’s cheek.
‘That’ll be nice,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation, which Peggy put down to his already thinking about the day ahead. ‘She’s amazing, Lindy. A proper force for good.’
She was, indeed, amazing, and had been so kind to Peggy as a newcomer to the bay. She’d got to know her because she was tutoring Lindy’s granddaughter, Ada, once a week for an hour: the child needed to pass the entrance exam to get into a competitive Truro private school. Lindy had insisted Peggy come to the gathering today. ‘You need to meet some fun ladies, get out more,’ she said, giving Peggy a knowing wink, although Peggy hadn’t mentioned she’d yet to make many friends since their arrival in Pencarrow Bay eighteen months before.
She’d had her head down, until a couple of months ago, working, and supervising the people who came to do the hard and heavy bits, like the plumbing, the electrics and the kitchen fittings, on the renovation of their charming 1920s modernist villa on the cliffs. Shearwater– named after the sooty shearwater bird, according to the overly chatty estate agent– had been a case of love at first sight, the house something of a fire sale. The owner had recently died and his son, living in Berlin with no interest in a UK seaside retreat, was apparently desperate to liquidate the inheritance. Peggy and Ted had glanced at each other as they stood in the porch of the house, before the agent had even unlocked the front door, and grinned. They knew they would buy the place, despite the work needed on the interior, which looked as if no one had touched it for decades.
During those early months in Pencarrow she’d seemed to be perpetually covered with dust, the smell of paint in her nostrils, stubborn streaks in her auburn hair, splinters in her fingers, the whine of power drills in her ears, her eyes permanently crossed as she peered at her laptop and tried to decide between a daunting array of tiles for the bathroom or kitchen. Traditional? Abstract? Patterned? Plain? She’d thoroughly enjoyed the process, surprising herself, because it wasn’t something she’d done before, but she hadn’t had the time or energy for socializing as well. But Peggy knew it was more than that, really. She wasn’t quite sure how to get her toe in the door of the social life of the village– such a new environment for her– without the obvious lever of the coffee truck that Ted had used so successfully. So she was pleased when Lindy had invited her to the coffee morning.
Genevieve Dixon, known as Gen, who managed Kyma, the chic boutique favoured by the moneyed guests who stayed at the Samson George hotel in the village, was becoming a friend. She had worked with Peggy on ideas for the décor, interior design not being her forte. Gen was an artist by training, and although fashion was her preferred medium, she had a good eye. They’d bonded when Peggy was poking around in the shop one morning and they’d got chatting, Peggy explaining about the renovations and throwing up her hands in bewilderment at the raft of colour and fabrics that faced her. Gen had kindly offered to assist. But Gen didn’t have much spare time in which to hang out between working long hours at the shop or on designs for the career in fashion that had so far eluded her.
Now, as Peggy lay listening to Ted opening the front door and calling Bolt– the brindle black-and-tan rescue greyhound they’d adopted as a symbol of their commitment to each other– she realized she was nervous of Lindy’s coffee morning. Even though she’d been in the bay for well over a year, she still felt unsettled, like a fish out of water.Who are these ‘fun ladies’? Will I have anything in common with them?Would they findherfun?
Peggy knew she was keen to embrace the very different nature of a Cornish village, compared to the hectic life of the capital city. She’d spent the previous forty years in London where, if some random smiled at you in the street, they were either nuts or about to ask you for money. In the village,everyonesaid hello all the time, and many seemed to know who Peggy was, even if they’d never been introduced. She loved that. Loved being able to look anyone in the eye without caution, that people seemed a lot more relaxed, more ready to chat. But she hadn’t found her group yet– friends with whom she felt open and at ease, as she did with the few she’d left behind in London.
Ted, with his boundless energy, enthusiasm and sociability, had had the jump on her in bonding with the community in the bay. He’d been out and about there from the start, making friends with his customers and building useful connections with tradespeople, suppliers and local businesses. Like Bolt, who was in danger of becoming the village mascot with his charming affability, Ted, as Peggy often pointed out, was a serial bonder. He could talk to anyone, any time, under any circumstances, with no apparent effort. His confidence, of which she was almost envious, had been one of the things that hadattracted her when they first met. It just made everything so much easier.
Who am I now?Peggy asked herself, as she turned over in bed and gazed out at the day. How could she relate to new friends if she didn’t know who this newretiredPeggy was? Because she felt that her identity had been unwittingly stripped away with her job. She’d been a teacher all her adult life. Her work, she realized, had come to define her– and she knew it was a bad idea to be defined by anything outside your control.
She thought back to when she’d said goodbye to the team at the Great Ormond Street Hospital School, to which she’d devoted the previous fifteen years of her working life, teaching English to A-level standard. The children she taught suffered from so many different health problems. Chronic, life-changing conditions that denied them a normal education– some for short periods, others for years as they bounced back to the hospital with ongoing issues. Kids undergoing endless rounds of chemo- and radiotherapy. Others with serious mental health problems. Those who had endured multiple surgeries over the years. They had inspired such awe in Peggy: their bravery, their resilience, their humour in the face of disability– in some cases potentially lifelong– and possibly death, their struggle to be ‘normal’… to reach for a future that might not happen.
She’d loved her job even if, in some cases, it was less about passing exams, more about creating a temporary diversion for her pupils. She would attempt to draw a child’s attention away from the drudgery of bodily discomfort, another painful procedure, or just the boredomof a restricted ward-life without their family and friends, offering them a sizzling novel, a fiction from another time, an essay where they could transport themselves into a different world and be a person who was strong and healthy and carefree.
On her last day, her colleague and friend, D’Andre, had brought in a tin of his mini carrot and orange cupcakes with cream-cheese icing, which were melt-in-the-mouth delicious. Louisa, a teaching assistant, had got some of Peggy’s pupils to design and paint a beautiful flowery banner saying, ‘We love you, Ms Gilbert. We’ll miss you very much.’ And Peggy’s boss, Christine, had given her a signed copy of a Nigel Slater cookbook– because, her reasoning went, Peggy would have loads of time to cook now she was retiring: Peggylovedcooking. They’d been so kind, so genuinely sad to see her go. And Peggy, walking away from the hospital, along Great Ormond Street and skirting Queen Square that evening, had felt utterly bereft. She would have cried if she hadn’t been on a crowded pavement, in a packed Tube. It was as if someone had chopped off a body part.
But she had fallen in love with Ted.And Ted had a plan.
