Page 7 of New Beginnings At Pencarrow Bay
‘So what have you been up to?’ Ted perched on the low wall, which separated his small domain from the car park, square hands resting on his knees. His hair, silver-white now and styled in a longish crew cut, stood out in stark contrast to the early-summer tan on his lean, handsome face.
Peggy caught Quentin’s eye, and received a mischievous wink in return. ‘Er, we’ve been on the beach,’ she said.
‘Swimming?’ Ted looked both surprised and delighted.He loves me exercising, she thought guiltily. Exercise was like a religion to Ted. ‘That’s brilliant. Knackeringly cold, I bet.’
‘I didn’t go in,’ Quentin said primly, a grin hovering around his mouth, which made Peggy want to giggle.
Lindy, who’d stopped to talk to a couple at one of the other tables, now joined them, saving Peggy from having to explain further. ‘Hi, Peggy,’ she said, with a radiant smile. ‘Such a gorgeous day. Lovely to see you out and about, Quentin.’
Quentin snorted. ‘I’m always “out and about”, as you put it, Lindy.’
Ouch, Peggy thought, surprised at his touchiness.
But Lindy didn’t seem to take offence. ‘This splendid buggy is new, though.’ Fixing a questioning smile on Peggy, she asked, ‘Have you signed up for Morvoren’s Dip, sweetheart?’
The annual sponsored swim went from the cove round the cliffs beneath the lighthouse, across the bay to finish at Morvoren’s tail. It took place the following weekend, on Mermaid Day.
‘You’d be up for it, wouldn’t you?’ Ted said enthusiastically.
‘Umm, not sure…’ Peggy began, ignoring Quentin, who was eyeing her with a look of theatrical alarm.
Lindy nodded and turned a questioning smile on Ted. ‘You’ll be the hero then, won’t you, Ted? I’d volunteer myself, but I’m not a strong swimmer and if it’s at all choppy…’ She shrugged, as if disappointed in herself.
‘When it’s hot and still and blue, it’s beyond perfect out there,’ Quentin volunteered dreamily, his gaze bright with the romance of his thoughts. ‘Our bay, on a good day, beats the soupy warm murk of the Mediterranean into a cocked hat.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot, Lindy,’ Ted declared, with a grin. He was a good swimmer, much better than Peggy, although running was his real forte. Glancing at his watch, he added, ‘Better get off to this meeting.’
‘Yes, I should go too, I’ve got tennis in half an hour,’ Lindy said brightly– she seemed always to have something to do. ‘See you all later.’ She patted Ted’s back as she passed him, waved at Peggy and Quentin.
Walking back up the hill, going home for lunch– and finally to change out of her embarrassingly underemployed swimming costume– Peggy had a spring in her step. She’d had such a fun morning with her new friend. And as they’d said goodbye, he’d suggested they do the loop that ran around the village one day– which, she knew, would be entertaining with Quentin by her side.
The ‘loop’ took in the shore road, which encompassed the harbour, the sailing club, shops and cafés, the pub and the hotel, then wound up the hill past the castle, the donkeys, Peggy and Ted’s house with the stunning views across the bay. It took in the football field for Pencarrow FC– there were always plenty of people who wanted to be on the team, according to Ted, although some, because of the demographic of the village, weren’t in the first flush of youth– and on to the farm shop, owned by a nineties rock star and his wife, before meandering down the hill, where passers-by might stare in at Avalon, the locally famous haunted house, if the high gates were open.
Avalon was a regular talking point in the village. Myths sprang up with every new owner of the ugly Victorian Gothic pile, which lay, set apart on a couple of rare acres of land, on the last leg of the loop back to Mermaid Coveand the sea. Legend had it that a young woman had been walled up in an attic room in Victorian times and could be heard screaming. Others held that a fisherman’s widow walked the corridors brandishing a gutting knife– although nobody seemed able to account for her motive in doing so. Peggy conceded the house did look blank and creepy– sort of intriguing, but quite out of character with the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the rest of the village– although she wasn’t buying into the ghost stories. Currently it was some sort of expensive woo-woo treatment centre, which only made the locals more suspicious. None of them would have anything to do with it or the shadowy people who ran it. Their clients all came from outside the area– many from abroad, apparently.
It was only later, when Peggy was gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what to eat for lunch, that her mind automatically reverted to Ted’s recent oddness.He pretty much appeared his normal self this morning with Lindy, she thought, who, she was sure, had been bending his ear about the village-hall roof over a coffee. Although she thought she’d noticed a bit of strain around his eyes when he’d joined her and Quentin. But every time they were alone together, these days, he seemed to switch off.Am I imagining it?she wondered.
Peggy sighed as she pulled out of the fridge the white china bowl of leftover vegetable soup, covered with a saucer, that she’d made for supper a couple of days ago– although she wasn’t particularly hungry after the tart. She wished she was naturally more trusting, less prone to over-thinking quite straightforward situations. It had been a curse since childhood. But trust had never come easily to her. As Annieliked to point out, when Peggy had invented yet another elaborate, sometimes fantastical scenario to explain her unease about something, ‘You do know that has absolutely no foundation in truth, Pegs.’
Going way back, it might have been, for instance, a school-gate mum Peggy had texted about something, who hadn’t replied immediately. Within a very short time, Peggy would have been worried:Did I upset her when we last met?In fact, the woman was just busy and had forgotten to text back. Her friend Marianne– an editor of academic books on psychology– put the over-thinking and lack of trust down to the erratic, selfish behaviour of Celia, her mother– and her father’s passive acceptance of it. Peggy and her brother, Tom, had had to look out for themselves, because no one else would.
Celia Kent had been a successful violinist. She’d played in a large and famous Manchester orchestra, which meant she was often away from their Nottinghamshire home. But there was one trip from which she didn’t return. Days passed. Peggy’s father, Eric– a perfectly nice but fairly useless jack-of-all-trades, mostly buying and selling antiques– refused to answer her increasingly worried questions about her mother’s whereabouts.
Then one Saturday night, when Eric had knocked back one too many whiskies– not an uncommon occurrence– Peggy, aged thirteen, had overheard him talking to someone on the hall telephone, his tone low. ‘Celia’s buggered off again. Got her leg over the second trombone this time. Says it’s serious.’
Which baffled Peggy. It did, indeed, sound ‘serious’, whatever it was. But when she repeated what her father hadsaid to Tom, her older brother, he’d stared at her strangely, but offered no explanation, just given a weary shrug. ‘She’s not coming back, Pegs. Better get used to it.’
Indeed her mother had not come back. She’d gone to live in Hamburg with Dieter, the aforementioned second trombone. After that, Peggy and Tom saw her once or twice a year for an awkward café tea of cheese on toast and beans– where they looked sullen and she looked guilty but defensive. As a result of Celia’s departure, their childhood had been torn apart, Peggy and Tom bundled off to live with Maud, their grandmother in Wells, changing school, changing friends, changing literally everything in their lives. Because, soon after, their father, too, had abdicated responsibility for his children, claiming he was unable to cope alone with a couple of demanding teenagers.
Maud was vague and wispy in her gentility, nothing said too loudly or forcefully, nothing done too abruptly, her outfits all suitably subfusc and unchallenging, so as not to attract the wrong sort of attention. But she was very kind, clearly loved her two grandchildren, and had done her best to look after them. It was Maud’s death that had reduced Peggy to frequent bouts of tears, not the subsequent passing of Eric and Celia. That bond had weakened so much over the years as to be almost non-existent.
No foundation in truth,Peggy repeated Annie’s mantra now, as she poured the contents of the bowl into a pan and pressed on the ceramic surface of the halogen hob.Ted is fine, she told herself firmly.He’s just busy and absorbed in making the business work. She stirred the soup, determined to settle herself on the subject once and for all. Then, pouring it into a deep bowl, she dug out some cheesy oatcakesfrom the cupboard, retrieved a spoon from the drawer in the kitchen island and took her lunch outside to the patio. A breeze had got up since the morning– being so high on the headland and exposed, there was often wind whistling around the villa. But it was still warm and pleasantly fresh out there.Peggy, though, as she sipped her soup, found she was not settled about Ted at all.
Pulling out her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans, Peggy clicked on Annie’s number. She needed diversion and a chat with someone who knew her better than anyone else.
The two had survived teacher training together in London in their twenties. Peggy had started work in an inner-city primary, while Annie had gone on to qualify in TEFL, travelling the world teaching English in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, where she’d met her husband, Satja, a quiet and very erudite research molecular biologist. They’d come back to the UK and settled near Peggy in north London with their two daughters. Peggy and the twins had loved hanging out with them all when the children were young– they were like a second family. Her own, as always, sparse and unsatisfactory.
‘Pegs, darling! How goes it in paradise?’ Annie, ever ebullient, greeted her fondly.
