The Forgotten Garden Part 19

"Then you're a sensible girl," said Henry. "The only thing that's been in or out of Cliff Cottage in the past thirty years is the odd local lad wanting to give himself and his mates a fright." Henry took a monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket, folded it in half and gave his forehead a pat. "Come now, Robyn dear. We'll be all day if we don't keep moving and that sun's got a bite. A bit of leftover summer this week."

The steep incline and narrowing track made further conversation difficult, and they walked the last hundred yards in silence. Wispy strands of pale gra.s.s s.h.i.+mmered as the wind sighed gently through.

Finally, after pa.s.sing through a clump of straggly shrubs, they reached a stone wall. It was at least ten feet high and seemed incongruous after they'd come so far without seeing a single man-made structure. An iron arch framed the entrance gate and wiry tendrils of creeper had plaited themselves through, been calcified by time. A sign that must once have been attached to the gate now dangled by a corner. Pale green and brown lichen had grown scablike across its surface, filling greedily the curly lettered grooves. Ca.s.sandra inclined her head to read the words: KEEP OUT OR THE RISK BE ALL YOURS KEEP OUT OR THE RISK BE ALL YOURS.

"The wall is a relatively new addition," said Robyn.

"By new, my wife means it's only a hundred years old. The cottage must be three times that." Henry cleared his throat. "Now you realize, don't you, that the old place is in a state of some disrepair?"

"I have a photograph." She pulled it from her handbag.

He raised his eyebrows as he looked it over. "Taken before the time of sale, I'd say. It's changed a bit since then. It's been untended, you see." He extended his left arm to push aside the iron gate and motioned with his head. "Shall we?"

A stone path led beneath an arbor of ancient roses with arthritic joints. The temperature cooled as they crossed the garden's threshold. The overall impression was one of darkness and gloom. And quiet, an odd, still quiet. Even the noise of the irrepressible sea seemed dulled in here. It was as if the grounds within the stone wall were asleep. Waiting for something, or someone, to wake them.

"Cliff Cottage," said Henry, as they reached the path's end.

Ca.s.sandra's eyes widened. Before her was a huge tangle of brambles, thick and knotted. Ivy leaves, deep green and jagged, clung on all sides, stretching across the s.p.a.ces where windows must be hidden. She would have been hard-pressed to make out the building that lay beneath the creepers had she not known it was there.

Henry coughed, apology again coloring his face. "For sure, it's been left to its own devices."

"Nothing a good cleanup wouldn't fix," said Robyn, with a forced cheerfulness that could have resurrected sunken s.h.i.+ps. "No need for despondence. You've seen what they do on those renovation shows, haven't you? You get them in Australia?"

Ca.s.sandra nodded absently, trying to make out the roofline.

"I'll let you do the honors," said Henry, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a key.

It was surprisingly heavy, long with a decorative end, a swirl of bra.s.s in a beautiful pattern. As she clasped it, Ca.s.sandra felt a flash of recognition. She'd held a key like this before. When, she wondered? In the antique center? The image was so strong but the memory wouldn't come.

Ca.s.sandra stepped onto the stone tread by the door. She could see the lock but a web of ivy had strung itself across the doorway.

"These ought to do the trick," said Robyn, plucking a pair of secateurs from her handbag. "Don't look at me like that, dear," she said as Henry raised an eyebrow. "I'm a country girl, we're always prepared."

Ca.s.sandra took the proffered tool and snipped the strands, one by one. When they all hung loose she paused a moment and ran her hand lightly over the salt-scarred wood of the door. A part of her was loath to proceed, content to linger a while on the threshold of knowledge, but when she glanced over her shoulder both Henry and Robyn nodded encouragement. She pushed the key into the lock and, using both hands, turned hard.

The smell was the first thing to hit her, damp and fecund, and rich with animal droppings. Like the rain forests back home in Australia, whose canopies concealed a separate world of moist fertility. A closed ecosystem, wary of strangers.

She took a tiny step inside the hall. The front door admitted enough light to reveal mossy flecks floating lazily in the stale air, too light, too tired to fall. The floors were made of wood and with each step her shoes made soft, apologetic sounds.

She came to the first room and peered around the door. It was dark, the windows coated by decades-old grime. As her eyes adjusted Ca.s.sandra saw it was a kitchen. A pale wooden table with tapered legs stood at center, two cane chairs tucked obediently beneath. There was a black range set into an alcove on the far wall, cobwebs forming a furry curtain before it, and in the corner a spinning wheel was still threaded with a piece of dark wool.

"It's like a museum," whispered Robyn. "Only dustier."

"I don't think I'll be offering you a cup of tea anytime soon," said Ca.s.sandra.

Henry had wandered over beyond the spinning wheel and was pointing to a stone nook. "There's a set of stairs over here."

A narrow flight ran up directly before turning abruptly at a small landing. Ca.s.sandra put her foot on the first step, testing its strength. St.u.r.dy enough. Cautiously, she began climbing.

"Go carefully, now," said Henry, following, hands hovering behind Ca.s.sandra's back in a vague, kindly attempt at protection.

Ca.s.sandra reached the little landing and stopped.

"What is it?" said Henry.

"A tree, a huge tree, completely blocking the way. It's come right through the roof."

Henry peered over her shoulder. "I don't think Robyn's secateurs are going to be much help," he said, "not this time. You need a tree lopper." He started back down the stairs. "Any ideas, Robyn? Who would you call to clear a fallen log?"

Ca.s.sandra followed him and arrived at the bottom as Robyn said, "Bobby Blake's lad ought to do the trick."

"Local boy." Henry nodded at Ca.s.sandra. "Runs a landscaping business. Does most of the work up at the hotel, too, and you won't get a better recommendation than that."

"I'll give him a call, shall I?" said Robyn. "Find out how he's placed later in the week? I'll just take myself out to the point and see if I can pick up mobile reception. Mine's been dead as a doork.n.o.b since we set foot in here."

Henry shook his head. "Over a hundred years since Marconi received his signal, and now look where technology's taken us. You know the signal was sent from just round the coast a little way? Poldhu Cove?"

"Was it?" As the extent of the cottage's dereliction dawned on her, Ca.s.sandra was beginning to feel increasingly overwhelmed. Grateful though she was to Henry for meeting her, she wasn't sure she'd be able to feign interest in a lecture on early telecommunications. She brushed aside a woven shawl of spiderweb and leaned against the wall, offered him a stoic smile of polite encouragement.

Henry seemed to sense her mood. "I'm terribly sorry the cottage is in such a state," he said. "I can't help but feel some responsibility, being the lawyer in charge of the key."

"I'm sure there was nothing you could have done. Particularly if Nell asked your father not to." She smiled. "Besides, it would've been trespa.s.sing and the sign out front is pretty clear about that."

"True enough, and your grandmother was adamant about us not calling in tradesmen. She said the house was very important to her and she wanted to see to the restoration personally."

"I think she had plans to move here," said Ca.s.sandra. "For good."

"Yes," said Henry. "I had a look back over the old files when I knew I'd be meeting you this morning. All her letters mention coming here herself until one written in early 1976. She said her circ.u.mstances had changed and she wouldn't be back, not for a time at any rate. She asked my father to hold the key, though, so she'd know where to find it when the time came." He looked around the room. "But it never did."

"No," said Ca.s.sandra.

"But you're here now," Henry said with renewed enthusiasm.

"Yes."

A noise at the door and they both looked up. "I got through to Michael," said Robyn, tucking her phone away. "He said he'd pop over on Wednesday morning to see what needs doing." She turned to Henry. "Come now, my love, we're expected at Marcia's for lunch and you know how she gets when we're late."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Our daughter has many virtues but patience is not chief among them."

Ca.s.sandra smiled. "Thanks for everything."

"Now, don't you be thinking of trying to move that log yourself," he said. "No matter how keen you are to get a look upstairs."

"I promise."

As they made their way along the path to the front gate, Robyn turned back to Ca.s.sandra. "You look like her, you know."

Ca.s.sandra blinked.

"Your grandmother. You have her eyes."

"You met her?"

"Oh yes, of course, even before she bought the cottage. One afternoon she came into the museum where I was working. She asked questions about local history. Some of the old families in particular."

Henry's voice from the cliff edge. "Come on, Robyn love. Marcia will never forgive us if the roast burns."

"The Mountrachet family?"

Robyn waved at Henry. "That's them. The ones who used to live up at the grand house. The Walkers, too. The painter and his wife, and the lady writer who published fairy tales."

"Robyn!"

"Yes, yes. I'm coming." She rolled her eyes at Ca.s.sandra. "He's got about as much patience as a firecracker on a fire, that husband of mine." And then she bustled after him, instructions for Ca.s.sandra to call on them anytime floating back after her on the sea breeze.

TWENTY-FIVE.

TREGENNA, 1975.

THE Tregenna Museum of Fis.h.i.+ng and Smuggling was nestled in a small whitewashed building on the rim of the outer harbor, and though the handwritten sign posted in the front window was clear about the opening hours, Nell had been in the village for three days before she finally glimpsed a light inside. Tregenna Museum of Fis.h.i.+ng and Smuggling was nestled in a small whitewashed building on the rim of the outer harbor, and though the handwritten sign posted in the front window was clear about the opening hours, Nell had been in the village for three days before she finally glimpsed a light inside.

She turned the handle and pushed open the low, lace-draped door.

Behind the desk sat a prim woman with shoulder-length brown hair. Younger than Lesley, thought Nell, but with a bearing infinitely older. The woman stood when she saw Nell, so that the tops of her legs pulled the lace cloth and a pile of papers towards her. She had the look of a child caught raiding the cake tin. "I-I wasn't expecting visitors," she said, peering over the top of her large gla.s.ses.

Nor did she seem particularly pleased to see any. Nell held out her hand. "Nell Andrews." She glanced at the name plaque on the desk. "And you must be Robyn Martin?"

"We don't get many visitors, not in the off season. I'll just find the key." She worried the papers on the desk, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "The displays are a little dusty," she said, a note of accusation in her voice. "But it's through that way."

Nell's gaze followed the sweep of Robyn's arm. Beyond the closed gla.s.s door was a small adjoining room, host to various nets and hooks and rods. Black-and-white photographs had been hung upon the wall, boats and crews and local coves.

"Actually," said Nell, "I'm looking for particular information. The fellow at the post office thought you might be able to help."

"My father."

"Pardon me?"

"My father's the postmaster."

"Yes," Nell said, "well, he thought you might be able to help me. The information I'm after isn't anything to do with fis.h.i.+ng or smuggling, you see. It's local history. Family history, to be precise."

The change in Robyn's countenance was instant. "Why ever didn't you say so? I work here at the fis.h.i.+ng museum to do my bit for the community, but Tregenna social history is my life. Here." She riffled through the pieces of paper she'd been busy with on her desk and thrust one into Nell's hand. "This is the text for a tourist pamphlet I'm putting together, and I'm just finis.h.i.+ng the draft of a little article on great houses. I've had interest from a publisher in Falmouth." She looked at her fine silver-chained wrist.w.a.tch. "I'd be happy to speak with you only I have to be somewhere-"

"Please," said Nell. "I've come a long way and I won't take much of your time. If you could just spare me a few minutes."

Robyn's lips tightened and she fixed Nell with her mouselike gaze. "I can do better than that," she said, nodding decisively. "I'll take you with me."

A THICKENING LAYER THICKENING LAYER of fog had blown in with the high tide and conspired with dusk to leach the village of color. As they climbed higher along the narrow streets, everything was turned a shade of grey. The swift change in conditions had brought an agitation to Robyn's manner. She walked at a clipped pace so that Nell, despite her own naturally spruce gait, had to work to keep up. Though Nell wondered where it was they were going so fast, the pace was such an impediment to conversation that she couldn't ask. of fog had blown in with the high tide and conspired with dusk to leach the village of color. As they climbed higher along the narrow streets, everything was turned a shade of grey. The swift change in conditions had brought an agitation to Robyn's manner. She walked at a clipped pace so that Nell, despite her own naturally spruce gait, had to work to keep up. Though Nell wondered where it was they were going so fast, the pace was such an impediment to conversation that she couldn't ask.

At the top of the street, they reached a little white house with a sign that read Pilchard Cottage. Robyn rapped on the door and waited. There were no lights on inside and she lifted her wrist closer to her eyes to make out the time. "Still not home. We tell him always to come home early when the fog sets in."

"Who?"

Robyn glanced at Nell as if she'd forgotten for a moment that the other woman was with her. "Gump, my grandfather. He goes each day to watch the boats. He was a fisherman himself, you see. He's been retired twenty years but he's not happy unless he knows who's been out and where they were catching." Her voice snagged. "We tell him not to stay out when the fog's on the rise, but he won't be told-"

She broke off and squinted into the distance.

Nell followed her gaze, watched as a patch of thick mist seemed to darken. A figure loomed towards them.

"Gump!" called Robyn.

"No fuss, my girl," came a voice from the fog. "No fuss." He appeared in the gloom, climbed his three concrete steps and turned the key in the lock. "Well, don't just stand there s.h.i.+vering like a pair of winnards," he said over his shoulder. "Come on in and we'll have a nice drop of warm."

In the narrow hallway, Robyn helped the old man out of his salt-encrusted mackintosh and black Wellington boots, then stowed them on a low wooden bench. "You're damp, Gump," she fussed, clutching a handful of his checked s.h.i.+rt. "Let's get you into some dry clothes."

"Pah," said the old man, tapping his granddaughter's hand. "I'll sit a time by the fire and be dry as a bone by the time you bring me some tea."

Robyn raised her eyebrows slightly in Nell's direction as Gump hobbled into the front room: Can you see what I have to deal with? said the gesture.

"Gump's almost ninety but he refuses to move out of his house," she said quietly. "Between us we make sure someone has supper with him every night. I'm Monday to Wednesday."

"He seems well for ninety."

"His eyesight's starting to fail and his hearing isn't the best, but he still insists on making sure "his boys" get back safely into port, no thought for his own frailties. G.o.d help me if he comes to harm on my watch." She peered through the gla.s.s, wincing as her grandfather tripped over the rug on his way to the armchair. "I don't suppose...That is, I wonder whether you'd sit with him while I light the fire and put the kettle on. I'll feel better once he's all dried out."

Lured by the exquisite promise of finally learning something of her family, there was little Nell wouldn't agree to. She nodded and Robyn smiled with relief before hurrying through the door after her grandfather.

Gump had sat himself in the tan leather armchair, a homely quilt spread across his lap. For a moment, as she looked at that quilt, Nell thought of Lil and the quilts she'd made for each of her daughters. She wondered what her mother would think about this quest she was on, whether she'd understand why it was so important to Nell to reconstruct the first four years of her life. Probably not. Lil had always believed that a person's duty was to make the best of the hand they were dealt. No use wondering what might have been, she used to say, all that matters is what is. Which was all very well for Lil, who knew the truth about herself.

Robyn pushed herself to standing, new flames leaping eagerly from paper to paper on the grate behind her. "I'm going to fetch some tea now, Gump, put the supper on to cook. While I'm in the kitchen my friend here..." She looked searchingly at Nell. "I'm sorry..."

"Nell, Nell Andrews."

"Nell is going to sit with you, Gump. She's a visitor to Tregenna and interested in the local families. Perhaps you can tell her a bit about the old town while I'm gone."

The old man held open palms upon which a lifetime of hauling ropes and threading hooks had written its tale. "Ask me anything," he said, "and I'll tell you all I know."

As Robyn disappeared through a low doorway, Nell looked about for somewhere to sit. She settled on a green wingback chair by the fire, enjoying the surge of warmth as firelight yawned across her side.