The Cornish Cream Tea Bus: Part Four – The Icing on the Cake. Cressida McLaughlin
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Reenie drew her knees up to her chest, a gesture that made her look like a young girl. ‘Maybe it’s time I told you a thing or two.’
Charlie stayed silent, waiting.
‘My husband, Maurice, died ten years ago. He dropped down dead in the post-office queue, of a ruptured brain aneurysm. He’d been entirely healthy up to that point, so it was a complete shock. I fell apart. There are large chunks of the following months that I don’t remember. I rejected offers of help from my sister and her family, and stopped going to see her – or anyone.’
‘I’m so sorry, Reenie. I had no idea.’ She remembered Daniel mentioning Reenie’s family that night in the pub, how everyone at the table had been surprised.
‘Why should you? I haven’t told you about it up until now.’
‘Is that when you moved out here? After he died?’
She shook her head. ‘Maurice and I lived here together. I know it’s hard to believe, sitting here precariously on the cliff, but it is a stable home. We have a son, Eddie, but he’s grown now, with a family of his own out in Sydney. I haven’t seen him for several years, though we Skype every other morning. With my therapist, it’s once a week.’ She gave Charlie a wry look. ‘Modern technology has been the making of me – or should I say, remaking of me. In more ways than one. Come inside.’
She stood suddenly, and Charlie, after waiting for this moment and then unprepared to have it offered up so freely, almost stumbled off the edge of the cliff in her haste to see inside the yellow house.
Reenie pushed open the door and Charlie followed her into a small, open-plan kitchen and living room. The sparse furniture was white-painted pine, everything spick and span: a kitchen table and two chairs, a dresser against the far wall. The sofa and single armchair were grey fabric, cosy and worn, and the coffee table was clear apart from coasters. But it wasn’t the furniture Charlie was interested in, or even the sheer quantity of light that flooded the rooms; it was what the light was falling on, covering every wall, making it hard to see the paintwork behind.
There were hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Unframed, A6 size, pinned close together like a mosaic.
Charlie did a slow circle, taking it all in. They were all of Porthgolow, either facing into the village, or out towards sea, the shifting moods and colours of the ocean, the cliffs and the sky. There were some taken from the beach, and others from the top of the hill above the cottage, on Crumbling Cliff. Something snagged in her brain. How many years’ worth were here? Suddenly, the lights in the evening made sense. It was a camera’s flash.
‘How …?’ she began.
Reenie chuckled. ‘It’s my obsession. My therapist doesn’t think it’s healthy, but she’s accepted that it may take another two decades – however long I have left – for me to think my way out of it.’
Charlie stepped closer to the nearest wall, taking in the detail. In a few photos she could see The Cornish Cream Tea Bus, the flash of sun reflecting off Crystal Waters. There were several taken during her food markets, with the beach a hive of colourful, vibrant activity.
‘Do you take photos every day?’
‘Every day,’ Reenie echoed. ‘I can’t bear to let one pass without capturing it. I am the very definition of a dotty old woman.’
‘Because of your grief,’ Charlie said, moving to look at a cluster where the sea was pearlescent, the light not quite reaching the water’s surface. They must be the sunrise, she thought, the sun still low behind the land to the east, but touching everything with its morning glow. ‘You couldn’t hold onto Maurice, and this is your way of trying to regain control.’
She thought of how often, after Hal’s death, she’d had the sensation of falling, trying to grasp hold of something to stop herself, and realizing it would never be there again. The pure, white-hot burst of desolation, of aching to go back to the days before, when everything was as it should be.
‘You really are as smart as you look,’ Reenie said, amusement in her voice. ‘Almost.’
‘So you take the photos, then put them up randomly on the walls of the house?’
‘My printer works overtime. My biggest expense, even more than electricity on this place, is ink and photo paper. There are albums too, with the older pictures in. But it’s my version of knitting or pottery class with the local adult education centre. My way of coping. My therapist—’
‘Does she have a name?’ Charlie asked, laughing.
‘She does, but it’s Dolly, so it’s best if we gloss over that. She says it’s a symptom of my grief, not a part of my recovery. That’s usually when I tell her I don’t give a toss and end our session early. But she understands. We work well together.’
Charlie grinned. She’d had no idea what this yellow house contained, though the most surprising thing was Reenie herself. ‘And you don’t … do anything …’ Her voice drifted off as the synapses fired, and the truth hit her like a lightning bolt. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Shut your mouth girl, you’ll catch things bigger than flies.’
‘Porthgolow Hideaway,’ Charlie said. ‘That’s where I recognize the photos from. You’re behind the Porthgolow Hideaway Instagram account? It’s got thousands of followers.’
‘It does seem to be going rather well. And it’s nice to have a place where I can chat to people.’
Charlie peered over Reenie’s shoulder as the older woman opened her iPhone and then the Instagram app. There it was, @PorthgolowHideaway. The successful Instagram influencer was a reclusive, wise old woman who some people thought might possibly be a mermaid. She remembered Daniel saying he’d like to have some kind of partnership with the account and laughed out loud.
‘Daniel doesn’t know, does he? He’s never been in here?’
‘You’re the first person to darken this door for a long while, and whenever I see Daniel, it’s up at the hotel. Nobody knew about my foray into the online world up until this very moment, and I’d like to keep it that way, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Why?’ She could smell Reenie’s faint lavender scent and felt a twist of protectiveness towards her, as self-aware and defiant as she was.
‘I don’t want anyone to know. It’s for me, posting the beauty of this place, interacting with people who comment. They don’t need to know I’m behind it.’
‘Porthgolow Hideaway,’ Charlie murmured. ‘What made you start it up?’
‘Why not?’ Reenie said. ‘I was taking the photographs anyway, and Dolly said I should connect with people. This is how I choose to do it. I may not have the will to come to one of your markets or socialize in the pub, but I can show people how special this place is. It’s how I see Porthgolow. And this,’ she gestured to the sea beyond the windows, ‘this is our view. Maurice’s and mine. If I put my name to it, if the Instagram page isn’t anonymous any more, I’d be giving up what Maurice and I had together.’
Charlie put her hand on Reenie’s arm and could feel how thin it was, the bone close to the surface. ‘You’re already sharing it,’ she said softly, ‘even if nobody knows it’s you. And just because you tell them, it doesn’t mean it’s no longer yours and his. You don’t dilute your memories just because you share them with other people. In some ways, I think, it makes them stronger.’
Reenie stared at her, suddenly looking her age. Charlie wouldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to; it was entirely up to her what she did with her photographs. But they had definitely had an influence on her events; the account had put Porthgolow on the social media map before Charlie had even driven into the village. She was sure it had helped build the momentum.
‘You know what?’ Charlie continued. ‘You have been a huge help