Coming Home: An uplifting feel good novel with family secrets at its heart. Fern Britton
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scepticism, hoping for the best expecting the worst, balances us perfectly.’ She waved and smiled as she spotted Queenie, owner of the village store and harbinger of all news, taking a quick fag break outside her shop. ‘Queenie, however, is on permanent standby for disaster. Like Henry.’
Kit shoved the car into first gear and set off around the village green towards Trevay. ‘So your brother’s a miserable sod, then?’
‘Yep. But he cheers up when he has beer inside him.’
‘I’m the man for that job.’
They drove in friendly silence up the dappled lane that took them past their local, the Dolphin Pub and out to the top road headed towards Trevay.
Ella had always loved this road, even as a child living in Trevay with her brother and grandparents. She unwound the window and watched as the trees and small cottages gave way to high hedges with gateways offering tantalising vistas of the sea beyond. As the road reached its highest point the trees and farms opened to acres of green fields, with the glittering Atlantic below, crashing onto the rocks of the headland that sheltered her childhood village.
The final descent into Trevay revealed the busy harbour with its working fishing fleet tied up on the low tide. How she loved this place. How she had missed it when her old family home had been sold as a bed and breakfast business.
‘Which way?’ asked Kit as they got out of the car.
‘Over to the headland?’ Ella was opening the hatchback boot and putting Celia and Terry on their leads. ‘These two can run around safely over there.’
The walk took them up the steep hill to the left of the harbour, past the Pavilions Theatre and onto the coastal path. The view from here was breathtaking. Jagged, slate-layered cliffs fell to the rolling boil of a gentle sea. Celia and Terry were unleashed and ran like cheetahs through the gold and purple of gorse and heather, forcing the shy skylarks to take to the wing and sing their beautiful song.
Kit pulled Ella towards him by the collar of her jacket and kissed her. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.
‘Happy anniversary, my love.’ She kissed him back. ‘How many months is it now?’
‘Five.’
She sighed. ‘Five months. The best five months of my life.’
‘And mine, sweetheart.’ He kissed her nose and they walked on hand in hand. ‘Fancy dinner out tonight? I mean five months is a hell of an anniversary, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve got to make the pasties for tomorrow. Henry will be disappointed if I don’t.’
‘Okay. How about coffee and a cake when we get back to Trevay?’
‘Done.’
They walked and talked and threw Celia and Terry their balls until all four of them were ready to go back to the car.
‘They’ll sleep well tonight,’ said Kit, shutting them in the boot.
‘We all will.’ Ella took off her jacket. ‘I’m ready for that cake too.’
The Foc’sle was an old-fashioned teashop on the quay, two doors down from the Golden Hind pub.
‘We could have a quick pint if you want?’ said Ella.
‘Much rather have a pot of tea.’ Kit perused the slightly sticky, laminated menu. ‘How about a cream tea? You need fattening up.’
‘Do I?’ She fluttered her eyelashes winsomely.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said seriously. ‘Being as lovely as you takes up many more calories than the average person. Fact. All that smiling and thinking kind thoughts is almost aerobic.’
‘Well, in that case …’ She nudged his knee under the table with her own. ‘I can always do some exercise … at bedtime. You could join me if you wanted.’
‘Oh, Miss Tallon,’ he shrieked, pretending to be shocked, ‘Just because you are a blazing firework of a woman with marmalade curls, you think you can do what you want with me?’
Ella giggled, ‘Yes.’
‘Then I am helpless, pulled by a current so strong I can’t resist. Do what you will, but …’
She raised an eyebrow and in a deep voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Be gentle with me.’
‘Can I help you?’ asked the middle-aged waitress with a name badge saying Sheree, who was standing over them.
Without missing a beat, Kit said, ‘Two cream teas, please.’
The pasties didn’t get made that night after all. When Ella came down in the morning the remnants of a chicken salad and a bottle and a half of wine were winking at her from the coffee table in the sitting room, reminding her of the evening they had spent curled up together, talking about everything and anything.
As she collected up the plates and stubs of candles she thought back to what they had talked about last night.
Ella wanted to talk about her plan to offer short painting courses for locals and holidaymakers. ‘The cliffs, the harbour, the church. There’s so much here for little children. We could go to the beach and find shells to paint or pebbles to paint on. That would be fun.’
‘Like your granny did for you? Revisiting your childhood?’
‘Oh.’ Ella was anxious. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘Not at all,’ Kit reassured her. ‘It’s lovely, and I think taking the little darlings from their parents for a couple of hours is a wonderful thing – for the parents.’
She flapped her hand and took another sip of wine. ‘What about you? When are you going to get on the cliffs and paint?’
‘I’ve got that portrait of Lindsay Cowan to finish, with her cat, dog and horse.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘She’s lovely, but what she sees as handsome, intelligent companions, I see as bloody pains in the arse. The cat is a toothless bag of bones, the dog stinks and growls at me and the horse farts and tries to bite me. But,’ he topped up his glass, ‘she pays well.’
‘When you’re done with her,’ Ella lifted her hands and began to draw in the air, ‘I want you to paint a huge canvas of a darkly rolling sea with stars twinkling and a lighthouse flashing across the waves. It’ll be perfect above the fireplace.’
‘One day,’ he put his glass down and kissed her knee, ‘that’s exactly what I shall paint for you.’
Ella’s hand was around his shoulders as he lay his head in her lap. The candlelight flickered warmly creating a cosy cocoon. ‘This is nice,’ she said sleepily.
‘We won’t be able to do this tomorrow. Your brother will be here and Adam will be back.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And the day after, you might find out what happened to your mum.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think happened to her?
‘A million things. I have spent my whole life thinking about her and why she left. Sometimes I want her to come back and other times I hope she’s dead. It would be easier. I could build a picture of a mum I want. Not a phantom built from questions.’
Ella wondered if what she had said last night was true. She felt no anger towards her missing mother. Just a need to know why. She took the dirty plates and glasses from last night and stacked them into the dishwasher before putting the kettle on for a pot of morning tea. As she waited for it to boil, she tidied the rest of the sitting room, plumping cushions, opening the curtains to the early sun and picking up a chewed slipper and a rubber chicken, both toys left by Celia and Terry.
She heard both dogs yawning from their room next to the kitchen and went to let them out. Terry came out, then sat