Careless in Red

Chapter Five

CADAN HAD HIGH HOPES THAT THE BACON STREAKIES WOULD do the trick. He also had high hopes that Pooh would do the trick. The Bacon Streakies, which were the bird’s favourite treat, were supposed to encourage and reward him. The system was to let the parrot see the bag of goodies dangling from Cadan’s fingers-a manoeuvre sufficient to get the bird’s interest-and then put him through his paces. The reward would follow, and there was absolutely no need to show Pooh the crunchy substance itself. He might have been a parrot, but he was no dummy when it came to food.

But tonight, distractions diverted him. He and Cadan were not alone in the sitting room, and the other three individuals were proving more interesting to the parrot than the food on offer. So balancing on a small rubber ball and walking said ball across the length of the fireplace mantel did not hold the same promise that a lolly stick in the hands of a six-year-old girl held. A lolly stick carefully applied to the parrot’s feathered head, rubbed gently back and forth in the region where one assumed his ears to be, guaranteed ecstasy. A Bacon Streakie, on the other hand, effected only momentary gustatory satisfaction. So although Cadan made a heroic attempt to get Pooh to provide some entertainment for Ione Soutar and her two young daughters, entertainment was not forthcoming.

“Why’s he not want to do it, Cade?” Jennie Soutar asked. She was the younger of the two. Her older sister, Leigh-who was, at ten, already wearing glittery eye shadow, lipstick, and hair extensions-looked as if she’d never expected the bird to do anything extraordinary in the first place and who cared anyway as the bird was neither a pop star nor someone likely to become a pop star. Instead of paying attention to the failed bird show, she’d been flipping through a fashion magazine, squinting at the pictures because she refused to wear her specs and was campaigning for contact lenses.

Cadan said, “It’s the lolly stick. He knows you’ve got it. He wants to be petted again.”

“C’n I pet him, then? C’n I hold him?”

“Jennifer, you know how I feel about that bird.” These words were spoken by her mother. Ione Soutar was standing in the bay window, gazing out at Victoria Road. She’d been doing that for thirty minutes, and she didn’t look like a woman who intended to stop doing it anytime soon. “Birds carry germs and diseases.”

“But Cade touches him all the time.”

Ione shot her daughter a look. It seemed to say, “And just look at Cade, will you?”

Jennie interpreted the expression on her mother’s face in whatever way Ione intended. She scooted back on the sofa-her legs sticking out in front of her-and she puffed out her lips in disappointment. It was, Cadan saw, a facial expression unwittingly identical to Ione’s.

No doubt the feeling behind it was the same as well: disappointment. Cadan wanted to tell Ione Soutar that she was going to be endlessly disappointed as long as she had his father in her marital sights. On the surface it looked as if they were perfect for each other-two independent businesspeople with workshops in the same location on Binner Down, two parents years without partners, two parents who surfed, two children for each of them, two little girls interested in surfing, with a third older girl their role model and instructor, two family-oriented families…There was probably also good sex involved as well, but Cadan didn’t like to speculate about that, as the thought of his father in a carnal embrace with Ione made his skin go prickly. Nonetheless, superficially it appeared to be logical that nearly three years in this association between man and woman ought to have resulted in something akin to a commitment from Lew Angarrack. But it hadn’t done, and Cadan had heard enough of his father’s end of telephone conversations to know Ione was no longer happy with the situation.

She was currently annoyed as well. Two takeaway Pukkas pizzas had long since gone cold in the kitchen while she waited in the sitting room for Lew’s return. It was a wait that was beginning to seem futile to Cadan, for his father had showered and changed and rushed off on what Cadan saw as a real fool’s errand.

It seemed to Cadan that a visit from Will Mendick had prompted Lew’s departure. Will had rumbled up Victoria Road in his wheezing old Beetle and as he’d unfolded his wiry frame from the car and approached the front door, Cadan could see from his ruddy face that something troubled him.

He’d asked for Madlyn directly and said curtly, “Where is she, then? She wasn’t at the bakery either,” when Cadan revealed that she wasn’t at home.

“We don’t have her on the GPS yet,” Cadan told him. “That’s next week, Will.”

Will hadn’t seemed to appreciate the humour. “I need to find her.”

“Why?”

So he’d told him the news he’d had off the bird at Clean Barrel Surf Shop: Santo Kerne was dead as a doornail, his head mashed in or whatever it was that happened when one fell during a cliff climb.

“He was climbing alone?” Climbing at all was the real question since Cadan knew what Santo Kerne really preferred doing, which was surf and shag, and shag and surf, both of which came quite easily to him.

“I didn’t say he was alone,” Will pointed out sharply. “I don’t know who was with him or even if there was someone with him. Why d’you think he was alone?”

Cadan didn’t have to reply at that point because Lew had heard Will’s voice and had apparently read something dire from the tone. He’d come from the back of the house where he’d been working on the computer and Will had brought him into the picture as well. “I’ve come to tell Madlyn,” Will explained.

Too right, Cadan thought. The way to Madlyn was open, and Will was not a man to ignore a gaping doorway.

“Damn,” Lew said in a thoughtful tone. “Santo Kerne.”

Not one of them was exactly in extremis over the news, Cadan admitted to himself. He reckoned that he was the one who probably felt the worst, but that was likely because he had the least at stake in matters.

“I’ll go look for her, then,” Will Mendick had said. “Where do you think…?”

Who bloody knew? Madlyn’s emotions had been running their usual mad course since her breakup with Santo. She’d started with devastation and moved on to blind and unreasonable anger. As far as Cadan was concerned, the less he saw of her the better until she’d gone through her last stage-it was always revenge-and then got back to normal again. She might have been anywhere: robbing banks, breaking windows, pulling men in pubs, tattooing her eyelids, beating up small children, or off to regions unknown for a surf. With Madlyn, you just never knew.

Lew said, “We’ve not seen her since breakfast.”

“Damn.” Will bit the side of his thumb. “Well, someone’s got to tell her what’s happened.”

Why? was what Cadan thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Think it should be you?” And he added foolishly, “Wise up, mate. When’re you planning to work things out? You’re not her type.”

Will’s face flared. His skin was spotty anyway, and the spots enflamed.

Lew said, “Cade.”

Cade said, “But it’s true. Come on, man-”

Will didn’t wait to hear the rest. He was out of the room and out of the door before Cadan could say another word.

Lew said, “Christ, Cade,” as apparent commentary on Cadan’s finesse. Then he went upstairs for his shower.

He hadn’t had one after his surf, so Cadan had first assumed his father was just doing what he ordinarily did: getting the sand and saltwater off. But then he’d left the house and he’d not returned. This had put Cadan in the position of trying and failing to entertain Ione and her daughters as they waited for his father.

“Looking for Madlyn,” was what Cadan had told his father’s girlfriend. He’d explained about Santo and said nothing more. Ione was already fully in the picture about the Madlyn-Santo situation. She could not have been involved with Lew Angarrack and not known about the situation. Madlyn’s well-developed sense of drama would have made that completely impossible.

Ione had gone into the kitchen, where she’d deposited the pizzas on the work top, set the table, and made a mixed salad. Then she’d returned to the sitting room. After forty minutes, she’d rung Lew’s mobile. If he had it with him, he didn’t have it on.

“How stupid of him,” Ione said. “What if she comes home while he’s out looking for her? How’re we to let him know?”

“He probably didn’t think of that,” Cadan said. “He went out in a rush.”

This wasn’t exactly true, but it seemed more…well, more likely that a worried father would depart in a rush than as Lew had departed, which was quite calmly, as if he’d made a grim decision about something or as if he knew something that no one else knew.

Now, having finished studying her fashion magazine, Leigh Soutar piped up in her usual fashion, with that bizarre cadence peculiar to young girls with too much exposure to adolescent films on satellite television. “Mum, I’m hungry?” she said. “I’m starving? Lookit the time, okay? Aren’t we having dinner?”

“Want a Bacon Streakie?” Cadan asked her.

“Yuck,” Leigh said. “Junk food?”

“And pizza is what?” Cadan enquired politely.

“Pizza,” Leigh told him, “is highly nutritious? There are at least two food groups involved and anyway I’m having only one slice, okay?”

“Right,” Cadan said. He’d seen Leigh at the trough before this night, and when it came to pizza she regularly forgot her intention of becoming the Kate Moss of her generation. The day she stopped at one slice of pizza would be the day pigs took to the air in droves.

“I’m hungry, too,” Jennie said. “Could we not eat, Mummy?”

Ione cast one last agonised look at the street. “I suppose,” she said.

She headed in the direction of the kitchen. Jennie popped off the sofa and followed, scratching her bum as she went. Leigh practised a catwalk prance in her sister’s wake, casting a baleful look at Cadan as she passed him.

“Stupid bird?” she said. “He doesn’t even talk? What sort of parrot doesn’t even talk?”

“One who saves his vocabulary for useful conversations,” Cadan said.

Leigh stuck out her tongue and left the room.

After a dreary meal of pizza left too long on the work top and salad left to the ministrations of a preoccupied chef wielding too much vinegar, Cadan offered to do the washing up and hoped in this offer that Ione would take her offspring and depart. No such luck. She hung about another ninety minutes, exposing Cadan to Leigh’s withering comments about the quality of his dishwashing and drying. She phoned Lew’s mobile four more times before taking herself and the girls to their home.

This left Cadan in his least favourite position: alone with his thoughts. He was thus relieved to field a phone call at long last revealing Madlyn’s whereabouts, but he was less relieved when the caller wasn’t his father. And he became downright concerned when a casual question on his part revealed that his father had not even been round seeking to discover Madlyn for himself. This concern led Cadan directly to being unnerved-a condition he didn’t care to speculate upon-so when his father finally turned up just shortly after midnight, Cadan was fairly cheesed off at the bloke for causing within him sensations he preferred not to feel. He was watching telly when the kitchen door opened and shut. Thereafter Lew appeared in the doorway to the lounge, standing in the shadows of the corridor.

Cadan said briefly, “She’s with Jago.”

Lew blinked and said, “What?”

“Madlyn,” Cadan said. “She’s with Jago? He rang. He said she’s asleep.”

No reaction from his father. Cadan felt an unaccountable chill at this. It ran up and down his arms like a dead baby’s fingers. He reached for the telly remote and clicked the off button.

“You were looking for her, right?” Cadan didn’t wait for an answer. “Ione was here. Her and the girls. Crikey, that Leigh’s a cow, you ask me.” Silence. So he said, “You were, right?”

Lew turned and went back to the kitchen. Cadan heard the fridge opening and something being poured into a pan. His father would be heating milk for his nightly Ovaltine. Cadan decided he wanted one himself-although the truth was, he wanted to read his father at the same time as he didn’t want to read his father-so he shuffled to the kitchen to join him.

He said, “I asked Jago what she was doing there. You know what I mean. Just, ‘What the heck’s she doing there, mate?’ because first of all why would she want to spend the night with Jago…What is he, seventy years old? That creeps me out if you know what I mean although he’s all right I expect but it’s not like he’s a relative or anything…and second of all…” But he couldn’t remember what the second of all was. He was babbling because his father’s obdurate silence was unnerving him more than he was already unnerved. “And Jago said he was up at the Salthouse with Mr. Penrule when this bloke came in with that woman who’s got the cottage in Polcare Cove. She said there was a body out there and Jago heard her say that she reckoned it was Santo. So Jago went to fetch Madlyn from the bakery to break the news to her. He didn’t phone here at first because…I don’t know. I s’pose she went dead mental on him when he told her and he had to cope with her.”

“Did he say that?”

Cadan was so relieved that his father was finally speaking that he said, “Who? Say what?”

“Did Jago say Madlyn went mental?”

Cadan thought about this, not so much whether Jago Reeth had actually said that about his sister but rather why his father was asking that of all possible questions. It seemed such an unlikely choice of queries that Cadan said, “You were looking for her, right? I mean that’s what I told Ione. Like I said, she was here with the girls. Pizza.”

“Ione,” Lew said. “I’d forgotten the pizza. I expect she left in a state.”

“She tried to ring you. Your mobile…?”

“I didn’t have it on.”

The milk steamed on the cooker. Lew got his Newquay mug and spooned Ovaltine into it. He used a generous amount, then he handed the jar over to Cadan who’d got his own mug down from the shelf above the sink.

“I’ll ring her now,” Lew said.

“It’s after midnight,” Cadan told him unnecessarily.

“Believe me, better late than tomorrow.”

Lew left the kitchen and went to his room. Cadan felt an urgent need to know what was going on. This was part curiosity and part a search for a reasonable means of calming himself without questioning why he needed calming. So he climbed the stairs in his father’s wake.

His intention was to listen at Lew’s door, but he found that wasn’t going to be necessary. He’d barely reached the top step when he heard Lew’s voice raise and could tell the conversation was going badly. Lew’s end consisted mostly of, “Ione…Please listen to me…So much on my mind…Overloaded with work…Completely forgot…Because I’m in the middle of shaping a board, Ione, with nearly two dozen more…Yes, yes. I am sorry, but you didn’t actually tell me…Ione…”

That was it. Then silence. Cadan went to the doorway of his father’s room. Lew was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had one hand on the phone’s receiver, which he’d just replaced in its cradle. He glanced at Cadan, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he got up and went for his jacket, which he’d thrown over the seat of a ladder-back chair in the corner of the room. He began to put it on. Apparently, he was going out again.

Cadan said, “What’s happening?”

Lew didn’t look at him as he replied with, “She’s had enough. She’s finished.”

He sounded…Cadan thought about this. Regretful? Tired? Heavyhearted? Accepting of the fact that as long as one remained unchanged, the past would accurately predict the future? Cadan said philosophically, “Well, you cocked things up. Forgetting her and everything.”

Lew patted his pockets as if looking for something. “Yes. Right. Well. She didn’t want to listen.”

“To what?”

“It was a pizza dinner, Cade. That’s all. Pizza. I could hardly be expected to remember a pizza dinner.”

“That’s cold, isn’t it,” Cadan said.

“It’s also none of your business,” Lew told him.

Cadan felt his belly grow tight and hot. He said, “Right. Well, I guess it isn’t. But when you want me to entertain your girlfriend while you’re out…out doing whatever…then it is my business.”

Lew dropped his hand from the search of his pockets. He said, “Christ. I’m…I’m sorry, Cade. I’m on edge. So much is going on. I don’t know how to explain myself to you.”

But that was just it, Cadan thought. What was going on? True, they’d heard from Will Mendick that Santo Kerne was dead-and yeah that was unfortunate, wasn’t it?-but why would the news throw their lives into chaos if chaos was indeed where they were?

THE EQUIPMENT ROOM OF Adventures Unlimited had been constructed in a former dining hall and the former dining hall had itself once been a tea-dancing pavilion in the heyday of the Promontory King George Hotel, a heyday that had occurred between the two world wars. Often when he found himself in the equipment room, Ben Kerne tried to imagine what it had been like when the parquet floor wore a gloss, the ceiling glittered with chandeliers, and women in frothy summer frocks floated in the arms of men wearing linen suits. They’d danced with a blissful lack of awareness then, believing that the war to end all wars had actually ended all wars. They’d learned otherwise, and far too soon, but the thought of them had always been soothing, as was the music Ben imagined he heard: the orchestra playing as white-gloved waiters passed finger sandwiches on silver trays. He considered the dancers-nearly saw their ghosts-and felt a poignancy about times that had passed. But at the same moment he always felt comfort. People came and went from the Promontory King George, and life continued.

In the equipment room now, however, the tea dancers of 1933 didn’t enter Ben Kerne’s mind. He stood in front of a row of cabinets, one of which he’d unlocked. Inside this cabinet, climbing equipment hung from hooks, lay neatly in plastic containers, and coiled on shelves. Ropes, harnesses, slings, belay and camming devices, chock stones, carabiners…everything. His own equipment he stored elsewhere because he didn’t like the inconvenience of coming down here to sort out what he wanted to take with him if he had a free afternoon for a climb. But Santo’s kit had a prominent place, and above it Ben himself had proudly fixed a sign that said “Do Not Take From This.” Instructors and students alike were to know those pieces of gear were sacrosanct, the accumulation of three Christmases and four birthday celebrations.

Now, however, all of it was missing. Ben knew what this meant. He understood that the absence of Santo’s equipment constituted Santo’s final message to his father, and he felt the impact of that message, just as he felt the weight and experienced the sudden illumination that the message provided as well: His own remarks-made unthinkingly and born of pigheaded self-righteousness-had effected this. Despite his every effort, despite the fact that he and Santo could not possibly have been more unlike each other in everything from personality to appearance, history had repeated itself, in form if not in substance. His own history spoke of wrongheaded judgement, banishment, and years of estrangement. Santo’s now spoke of denunciation and death. Not in so many words but, rather, with an open acknowledgement of a heaviness of heart that in and of itself had uttered a single damning question as loudly as if Ben had shouted it: What sort of miserable excuse for a man are you, to have done such a thing?

Santo could not have failed to interpret this unspoken query as anything other than what it was, and any son of any father would have likely done the same and reacted out of the same sense of outrage that had taken Santo out to the cliffs. Ben himself had reacted to his own father in much the same manner at much the same age: You talk about man, I’ll give you man.

But the underlying reason for Ben’s interaction with Santo remained unexamined although the superficial why of it didn’t need to be addressed at all, because Santo knew exactly what it was. The historical reason for their interaction, on the other hand, was far too frightening to contemplate. Instead of doing so, Ben had eternally told himself only that Santo was-always and merely-who Santo was.

“It just happened,” Santo had confessed to Ben. “Look, I don’t want-”

“You?” Ben said, incredulous. “You stop right there, because what you want doesn’t interest me. What you’ve done, on the other hand, does. What you’ve accomplished. The sum total of your bloody self-interest-”

“Why the hell do you care so much? What is it to you? If there was something to be handled, I would have handled it, but there was nothing. There is nothing. Nothing, okay?”

“Human beings,” Ben said, “are not to be handled. They’re not pieces of meat. They’re not merchandise.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“You’re twisting people’s lives.”

“That’s unfair. That’s so fucking unfair.”

As Santo would find most of life, Ben had thought. Except he hadn’t lived long enough to do so.

And whose fault was that, Benesek? he asked himself. Was the moment worth the price you’re paying?

That moment had been a single remark, said partly in anger but in larger part bleak fear: “Unfair is having a worthless piece of manure as a son.” Once said, the words hung there, like black paint tossed at a clean white wall. His punishment for having said them was going to be the memory of that wretched statement and what it had produced, which was Santo’s face gone white and the fact that a father had turned his back on his son. You want man, I’ll show you man. In spades if I must. But show you I will.

Ben didn’t want to think of what he’d said. If he had his preference, it would be that he might never think of anything again. His mind would go blank and thus it would remain, allowing him to go through the motions of living until his body gave out and eternal rest claimed him.

Ben closed the cupboard and looped the padlock back into place. He breathed slowly through his mouth till he’d mastered himself and his guts were easy again. Then he went to the lift and rang for it. It descended at a dignified, antique speed that matched its appearance of open iron fretwork. It creaked to a stop and he rode it to the top of the hotel where the family flat was and where Dellen waited.

He didn’t go to his wife at once. Instead, he went first to the kitchen. There, Kerra sat at the table with her partner. Alan Cheston was watching her, and Kerra herself was listening, her head tilted in the direction of the bedrooms. She was, Ben knew, waiting for a sign of how things would be.

Her gaze took in her father as he came through the doorway. Ben’s eyes questioned. She responded. “Still,” was her answer.

“All right,” he said.

He went to the cooktop. Kerra had boiled a kettle there, and the fire was still on beneath it, low so the steam escaped soundlessly and the water stayed just beneath a boil. She’d set up four mugs. Each held a teabag. He poured water in two of them and stood there, watching the tea brew. His daughter and her lover sat in silence. He could feel their eyes upon him, though, and he could sense the questions they wanted to ask. Not only of him but of each other. There were matters to discuss in every corner.

He couldn’t bear the thought of talking, so when the tea was sufficiently dark, he poured milk and added sugar to one and nothing to the other. He carried both from the kitchen and set one on the floor momentarily, in front of Santo’s door, which was closed but not locked. He opened it and went inside, into the dark with two cups of tea that he knew neither of them would be able or willing to drink.

She’d switched on no lights, and as Santo’s room was at the back of the hotel, there were no streetlamps from the town to illuminate the darkness within. Across the curved expanse of St. Mevan Beach, the lights at the end of the breakwater and atop the canal lock glittered through the wind and the rain, but they did nothing to expel the gloom in here. A milky shaft of light from the corridor, however, fell across the rag rug on the bedroom floor. On this, Ben saw that his wife was foetally curled. She’d ripped sheets and blankets from Santo’s bed and she’d covered herself with them. Most of her face was in shadow but where it was not, Ben could see it was stony. He wondered if the thought was in her mind: If only I had been here…if only I hadn’t gone off for the day…He doubted it. Regret had never been Dellen’s style.

With his foot, Ben closed the door behind him. Dellen stirred. He thought she might speak, but instead she drew the linens up to her face. She pressed them to her nose, taking in Santo’s scent. She was like a mother animal in this, and like an animal she operated on instinct. It had been her appeal from the day he’d met her: both of them adolescents, one of them randy and the other one willing.

All she knew so far was that Santo was dead, that the police had been, that a fall had taken him, and that the fall was during a sea-cliff climb. Ben had got no further than that with the information because she’d said, “A climb?” after which she’d read her husband’s face as she’d long been capable of doing and she’d said, “You did this to him.”

That was it. They’d been standing in the reception area of the old hotel because he’d not managed to get her any farther inside. Upon her return, she’d seen at once that something was wrong and she’d demanded to know, not as a way of deflecting the obvious question of where she herself had been for so many hours-she wouldn’t think anyone actually had a right to know that-but because something was wrong on a much larger scale than curiosity over her whereabouts. He’d tried to get her upstairs to the lounge, but she’d been immovable. So he told her there.

She went for the stairs. She stopped momentarily at the bottom step, and she clutched the railing as if to keep herself upright. Then she climbed.

Now, Ben set the milk-and-sugar tea on the floor near her head. He sat on the edge of Santo’s bed.

She said, “You’re blaming me. You reek of blaming me, Ben.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

“I think it because we’re here. Casvelyn. That was all about me.”

“No. It was for all of us. I’d had enough of Truro as well. You know that.”

“You would have stayed in Truro forever.”

“That’s not the case, Dellen.”

“And if you’d had enough-which I don’t believe anyway-it hadn’t to do with you. Or Truro. Or any town. I can feel your loathing, Ben. It smells like sewage.”

He said nothing. Outside, a gust of wind hit the side of the building, rattling the windows. A fierce storm was brewing. Ben knew the signs. The wind was onshore. It would bring in heavier rain from the Atlantic. They were not yet out of the season of storms.

“It’s myself,” he said. “We had words. I said some things-”

“Oh, I expect you did. You saint. You bloody saint.”

“There’s nothing saintly about following through. There’s nothing saintly about accepting-”

“That’s not what things were about between you and Santo. Don’t think I don’t know. You’re a real bastard.”

“You know why.” Ben set his mug of tea on the bedside table. Deliberately, then, he switched on the lamp. If she looked at him, he wanted her able to see his face and to read his eyes. He wanted her to know that he spoke the truth. “I told him he needed to take more care. I told him people are real, not toys. I wanted him to see that there’s more to life than seeking pleasure for himself.”

Her voice was scorn. “As if that’s how he lives.”

“You know that it is. He’s good with people. All people. But he can’t let that…that skill of his lead him to do wrong by them or to them. But he doesn’t want to see-”

“Doesn’t? He’s dead, Ben. There is no doesn’t.”

Ben thought she might weep then, but she did not. He said, “There is no shame in teaching one’s children to do right, Dellen.”

“Which means your right, yes? Not his. Yours. He was supposed to be made in your likeness, wasn’t he? But he wasn’t you, Ben. And nothing could make him in your likeness.”

“I know that.” Ben felt the words’ intolerable weight. “Believe me, I know that.”

“You don’t. You didn’t. And you couldn’t cope with it, could you? You had to have him the way you wanted.”

“Dellen, I know I’m to blame. Do you think that I don’t? I’m as much to blame for this as-”

“No!” She rose to her knees. “Do not dare,” she cried. “Don’t bring that back to me just now because if you do, I swear if you do, if you even mention it, if you bring it up, if you try to, if you…” Words seemed to fail her. Suddenly, she reached for the mug he’d placed on the floor and she threw it at him. Hot tea stung his chest; the rim of the mug struck his breastbone. “I hate you,” she said and then louder with each successive word, “I hate you, I hate you. I hate you.”

He dropped off the bed and onto his knees. He grabbed her then. She was still shrieking her hate as he pulled her to him, and she beat on his chest, his face, and his neck before he was able to catch her arms.

“Why didn’t you let him just be who he was? He’s dead and all you ever needed to do was just to let him be. Was that too much? Was that asking too much?”

“Shh,” Ben murmured. He held her; he rocked her; he pressed his fingers to her thick blonde hair. “Dellen,” he said. “Dellen, Dell. We can weep for this. We can. We must.”

“I won’t. Let me go. Let. Me. Go!”

She struggled, but he held her firmly. He knew he couldn’t let her leave the room. She was on the edge, and if she went over, they all would go with her and he couldn’t have that. Not in addition to Santo.

He was stronger than she, so he began to move her even as she fought him. He got her to the floor, and he held her there with the weight of his body. She writhed, trying to throw him off.

He covered her mouth with his. He felt her resistance for a moment and then it was gone, as if it had never been. She tore at him, but it was clothing now: She ripped at his shirt, at the buckle of his belt; she pushed his jeans desperately over his buttocks.

He thought, Yes, and he showed no tenderness as he pulled her sweater over her head. He shoved up her bra and fell on her breasts. She gasped and lowered the zip on her trousers. Savagely, he slapped her hand away. He would do it, he thought. He would own her.

In a fury, he made her naked. She arced to accept him and cried out as he took her.

Afterwards, both of them wept.

KERRA HEARD IT ALL. How could she help it? The family flat had been transformed as inexpensively as possible from a collection of rooms on the hotel’s top floor. Because it was needed elsewhere, very little money had gone into the insulation of the walls. They weren’t paper thin, but they might as well have been.

She heard their voices first-her father’s soft and her mother’s rising-then the shrieking, which she could not ignore, and then the rest. Hail the conquering hero, she thought.

Dully, she said to Alan, “You need to go,” although part of her was also saying, Do you understand now?

Alan said, “No. We need to talk.”

“My brother has died. I don’t think we need to anything.”

“Santo,” Alan said quietly. “Your brother’s name was Santo.”

They were still in the kitchen although not at the table where they’d been sitting when Ben had joined them. With the rising noise from Santo’s bedroom, Kerra had shoved away from the table and gone to the sink. There she’d turned on the water to fill a pan, although she had no idea what she would do with it.

She’d remained there after she’d turned off the taps. Outside, she could see Casvelyn, just the top of it where St. Issey Road met St. Mevan Crescent. An unappealing supermarket called Blue Star Grocery sprawled like a nasty thought at this V-shaped junction, a bunker of brick and glass that made her wonder why modern conveniences had to be so ugly. Its lights were still on for evening shopping, and just beyond it, more lights indicated cars moving carefully along the northwest and southeast boundaries of St. Mevan Down. Workers were heading home for the evening, to the various hamlets that for centuries had popped up like toadstools along the coast. Smugglers’ havens, Kerra thought. Cornwall had always been a lawless place.

She said, “Please go.”

Alan said, “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Santo”-and she said his name with deliberate slowness-“is what this is about.”

“You and I are a couple, Kerra. When people-”

“A couple,” she cut in. “Oh, yes. How true.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “When people are a couple, they face things together. I’m here. I’m staying. So you can choose which thing you’d like to face with me.”

She shot him a look. She hoped he read in it derision. He wasn’t supposed to be like this, especially not now. She hadn’t taken him on as her partner only to have him reveal a side of himself that proved he was someone she didn’t actually know. He was Alan, wasn’t he? Alan. Alan Cheston. Bit of a weak chest, so winters were tough on him, often cautious to a maddening extreme, churchgoing, parents loving, unathletic, sheep not shepherd. Respectful as well. And respectable. He was the sort of bloke who’d said May I…? before he’d tried to hold her hand. But now…this person just now…This was not the Alan who’d never missed a Sunday dinner at his mum and dad’s since he’d left university and London Bloody School of Economics. This was not the floppy-haired and white-skinned Alan who practised yoga and served meals-on-wheels and was never known to dive into the Sea Pit, just above St. Mevan Beach, without sticking his toes in first to test the temperature of the water. He wasn’t supposed to be telling her how things were going to be.

Yet he stood there doing it. He stood there in front of the steel-fronted fridge and he looked…implacable, Kerra thought. The sight of him made her veins feel icy.

He said, “Talk to me.” His voice sounded firm.

The firmness undid her. So what she said in reply was, “I can’t.”

Even this wasn’t what she intended to say. But his eyes, which were generally so deferential, were compelling at the moment. She knew that came from power, knowledge, and lack of fear, and where that had come from was what made Kerra turn from him. She would cook, she decided. They were all going to have to eat eventually.

“Fine,” Alan said to her back. “I’ll talk, then.”

“I have to make a meal,” she told him. “We all have to eat. If we lose our strength, things will get worse. In the next few days, there’s going to be so much to do. Arrangements, phone calls. Someone has to call my grandparents. Santo was their favourite. I’m the oldest of the grandkids-there’re twenty-seven of us…isn’t that obscene, what with overpopulation and that sort of thing?-but Santo was their favourite. We spent time with them, Santo and I. Sometimes a month. Once nine weeks. They need to be told and my father won’t do it. They don’t speak, he and Granddad. Not unless they have to.”

She reached for a cookbook. She had a collection of them, all kept in a stand on the work top, the product of cookery classes she’d taken. One of the Kernes had to learn how to plan nutritious, inexpensive, and tasty meals for the large groups who’d book into Adventures Unlimited. The Kernes would hire a cook, of course, but they’d save money by having the meals planned out by someone other than an executive chef. Kerra had volunteered for the job. She wasn’t interested in anything having to do with a kitchen, but she knew they couldn’t rely on Santo, and relying on Dellen would have been ridiculous. The former was a passable cook on a small scale, but easily distracted by everything, from a piece of music on the radio to the sight of a gannet flying in the direction of Sawsneck Down. As for the latter, everything about Dellen could alter in a second, including her willingness to participate in matters familial.

Kerra flipped open the book she’d chosen at random. She began leafing through pages to find something complicated, something requiring every bit of her attention. The list of ingredients needed to be impressive, and what they didn’t have in the kitchen, she would send Alan out to purchase at Blue Star Grocery. If he refused, she would go herself. In either case, she would be busy, and busy was what she wanted to be.

Alan said, “Kerra.”

She ignored him. She decided on jambalaya with dirty rice and green beans, along with bread pudding. It would take hours, and that was fine with her. Chicken, sausage, prawns, green peppers, clam juice…The list stretched on and on. She’d make enough for a week, she decided. The practice would be good, and they could all dip into it and reheat it in the microwave whenever they chose. And weren’t microwaves marvelous? Hadn’t they simplified life? God, wouldn’t it be the answer to a young girl’s prayers to have an appliance like a microwave into which people could be deposited as well? Not to heat them up, but just to make them different to what they were. Whom would she have shoved in first? she wondered. Her mother? Her father? Santo? Alan?

Santo, of course. It was always Santo. In you go, brother. Let me set the timer and twirl the dial and wait for someone new to emerge.

No need for that now. Santo was decidedly altered now. No more will-o’-the-wisp, no more tripping without a care in the world along the paths that opened up before him, no more thoughtless chase of if-it-feels-good-do-it. There’s more to life than that and I suppose you know it now, Santo. You knew it in the final moment. You had to know it. You crashed towards the rocks without a last-minute miracle in sight and in the precise instant before you struck bottom, you finally knew that there were actually other people in your world and that you were answerable for the pain you caused them. It was too late then to amend yourself, but it was always better late than never when it came to self-knowledge, wasn’t it.

Kerra felt as if bubbles were rising inside her. They were hot, like the bubbles of water boiling, and just like boiling water they burned to get out. She hardened herself against letting them escape, and she grabbed a litre of olive oil from another cupboard, above the work top. She turned to scoop up measuring spoons, thinking, How much oil…? and the bottle slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor just right-as it naturally would-and broke in two neat pieces. The oil pooled out in a viscous mess. It splashed the cooker, the cupboards, and her clothes. She leapt to one side, but she didn’t escape.

She cried, “Damn!” and she finally felt the threat of tears. She said to Alan, “Would you just please leave?” She snatched up a roll of kitchen towels and began to unspool them into the oil. Completely unequal to the task at hand, they were soaked to mush the instant they touched the liquid.

Alan said, “Let me, Kerra. Sit down. Let me.”

She said, “No! I made the mess. I’ll clean it up.”

“Kerra-”

“No. I said no. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. I want you to leave. Go.”

On a stand near the door a dozen or more copies of the Watchman had been piled. Alan reached for this. He put Casvelyn’s newspaper to good use. Kerra watched the oil soak into the newsprint. Alan did the same. They stood at opposite sides of the pool. She considered it a chasm but he, she knew, saw it as a momentary inconvenience.

He said, “You don’t need to feel guilty because you were angry at Santo. You had a right to anger. He may have thought it was irrational, even stupid of you to care about something that seemed silly to him. But you had a reason for what you felt and you had a right. You always have a right to whatever you feel, if it comes down to it. That’s how it is.”

“I asked you not to work here.” Her voice was expressionless; her emotion was spent.

He looked puzzled. It was a remark, she realised, coming from out of nowhere as far as he knew, but at the moment it summed up everything she was feeling but could not say.

“Kerra, jobs aren’t falling from the sky. I’m good at what I do. I’m getting this place noticed. The Mail on Sunday? There’re bookings coming in every day as a result of that piece. It’s tough out here, and if we mean to make a life in Cornwall-”

“We don’t,” she said. “We can’t. Not now.”

“Because of Santo?”

“Oh come on, Alan.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid. I’m never afraid.”

“Bollocks. You’re angry because you’re afraid. Anger is easier. It makes more sense.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Accepted. So tell me.”

She couldn’t. Too much hung in the balance to speak: too much seen and too much experienced for too many years. To explain it all to Alan was beyond her. He needed to take her word as the truth and he needed to act accordingly.

That he had not done so, that he was going to continue his refusals to do so rang the death knell over their relationship. Kerra told herself that, because of this, nothing that had happened that day actually mattered.

Even as she thought this, though, she knew that she was lying to herself. But that was something that also didn’t matter.

SELEVAN PENRULE THOUGHT IT was rubbish, but he joined hands with his granddaughter anyway. Across the narrow table in the caravan, they closed their eyes and Tammy began to pray. Selevan didn’t listen to the words although he caught the gist of them. Instead, he considered his grandchild’s hands. They were dry and cool but so thin that they felt like something he could crush simply by closing his own fingers roughly over them.

“She’s not been eating right, Father Penrule,” his daughter-in-law had told him. He hated what she called him-“Father Penrule” made him feel like a renegade priest-but he’d said nothing to correct Sally Joy, since speaking to him at all was something that she and her husband hadn’t bothered with for ages. So, he’d grunted and said he’d fatten the girl up. It’s being in Africa, woman, don’t you know that? You cart the girl off to Rhodesia-

“Zimbabwe, Father Penrule. And we’re actually in-”

Whatever the hell they want it to be called. You cart her off to Rhodesia and expose her to God only knows what and that would kill anyone’s appetite, let me tell you.

Selevan realised he was taking things too far at that point, because Sally Joy said nothing for a moment. He imagined her there in Rhodesia or wherever she was, sitting on the porch in a rattan chair with her legs stretched out and a drink on the table next to her…lemonade, it would be, lemonade, with a dash of…what is it, Sally Joy? What’s in the glass that would make Rhodesia go down a trick for you?

He harrumphed noisily and said, Well, never mind then. You send her along. I’ll get her sorted.

“You’ll watch her food intake?”

Like a peregrine.

Which he had done. She’d taken thirty-nine bites tonight. Thirty-nine spoonfuls of a gruel that would have made Oliver Twist lead an armed rebellion. No milk, no raisins, no cinnamon, no sugar. Just watery porridge and a glass of water. Not even tempted by her grandfather’s meal of chops and veg, she was.

“…for Your will is what we seek. Amen,” Tammy said, and he opened his eyes to find hers on him. Her expression was fond. He dropped her fingers in a rush.

He said roughly, “Bloody stupid. You know that, eh?”

She smiled. “So you’ve told me.” But she settled in so that he could tell her again, and she balanced her cheek on her palm.

“We pray before the bloody meal,” he groused. “Why d’we got to bloody pray at the bloody end as well?”

She answered by rote, but with no indication that she was tiring of a discussion they’d had at least twice a week since she’d come to Cornwall. “We say a prayer of thanks at the beginning. We thank God for the food we have. Then at the end we pray for those who don’t have enough food to sustain them.”

“If they’re bloody alive, they have enough bloody food to bloody sustain them, don’t they?” he countered.

“Grandie, you know what I mean. There’s a difference between just being alive and having enough to be sustained. Sustained means more than just living. It means having enough sustenance to engage. Take the Sudan, for example-”

“Now you hang on right there, missy-miss. And don’t move either.” He slid out from the banquette. He carried his plate the short distance to the caravan’s sink as a means of feigning other employment, but instead of beginning the washing up, he snatched her rucksack from the hook on the back of the door and said, “Let’s just have a look.”

She said, “Grandie,” in a patient voice. “You can’t stop me, you know.”

He said, “I know my duty to your parents is what I know, my girl.”

He brought the sack to the table and emptied its contents and there it was: on the cover a young black mother in tribal dress holding her child, one of them sorrowful and both of them hungry. Blurred in the background were countless others, waiting in a mixture of hope and confusion. The magazine was called Crossroads, and he scooped it up, rolled it up, and slapped it against his palm.

“Right,” he said. “Another bowl of that mush for you, then. Either that or a chop. You can take your choice.” He shoved the magazine into the back pocket of his drooping trousers. He would dispose of it later, when she’d gone to bed.

“I’ve had enough,” she said. “Truly. Grandie, I eat enough to stay alive and well, and that’s what God intended. We’re not meant to carry round excess flesh. Aside from being not good for us, it’s also not right.”

“Oh, a sin, is it?”

“Well…it can be, yes.”

“So your grandie’s a sinner? Going straight to hell on a plate of beans while you’re playing harps with the angels, eh?”

She laughed outright. “You know that’s not what I think.”

“What you think is a cartload of bollocks. What I know is that this stage you’re in-”

“A stage? And how do you know that when you and I have been together…what? Two months? Before that you didn’t even know me, Grandie. Not really.”

“Makes no difference, that. I know women. And you’re a woman despite what you’re doing to make yourself look like a twelve-year-old girl.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and he could tell from the expression on her face that she was about to twist his words and use them against him as she seemed only too expert at doing. “So let me see,” she said. “You had four sons and one daughter, and the daughter-this would be Aunt Nan, of course-left home when she was sixteen and never returned except at Christmas and the odd bank holiday. So that leaves Gran and whatever wife or girlfriend your sons brought round, yes? So how is it that you know women in general from this limited exposure to them, Grandie?”

“Don’t you get clever with me. I’d been married to your gran for forty-six years when the poor woman dropped dead, so I had plenty of time to know your sort.”

“My ‘sort’?”

“The female sort. And what I know is that women need men as much as men need women and anyone who thinks otherwise is doing their thinking straight through the arse.”

“What about men who need men and women who need women?”

“We’ll not talk about that!” he declared in outrage. “There’ll be no perversion in my family and have no doubt about that.”

“Ah. That’s what you think, then. It’s perversion.”

“That’s what I know.” He’d shoved her possessions back into the rucksack and replaced it on the hook before he saw how she’d diverted them from his chosen topic. The damn girl was like a freshly hooked fish when it came to conversation. She flipped and flopped and avoided the net. Well, that would not be the case tonight. He was a match for her wiliness. The cleverness in her blood was diluted by having Sally Joy for a mother. The cleverness in his blood was not.

He said, “A stage. Full stop. Girls your age, they all have stages. This one here, it might look different from another girl’s, but a stage is a stage. And I know one when I’m looking it in the eyes, don’t I.”

“Do you.”

“Oh aye. And there’ve been signs, by the way, in case you think I’m blowing smoke in the matter. I saw you with him, I did.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she carried her glass and bowl to the sink and began the washing up. She scraped the bone from his chop into the rubbish, and she stacked the cooking pots, the plates, the cutlery, and the glasses on the work top in the order in which she intended to wash them. She filled the sink. Steam rose. He thought she was going to scald herself some night, but the heat never seemed to bother her.

When she began to wash but still said nothing, he picked up a tea towel for the drying and spoke again. “You hear me, girl? I saw you with him, so do not be declaring to your granddad that you have no interest, eh? I know what I saw and I know what I know. When a woman looks at a man in the way you were looking at him…That tells me you don’t know your own mind, no matter what you say.”

She said, “And where did this seeing take place, Grandie?”

“What does it matter? There you were, heads together, arms locked…the way lovers do, by the way…”

“And did that worry you? That we might be lovers?”

“Don’t try that with me. Don’t you bloody try that again, missy-miss. Once a night is enough and your granddad isn’t fool enough to fall for it twice.” She’d done her water glass and his lager pint, and he snatched up the latter and pushed the tea towel into it. He screwed it around and gave it a polish. “You were interested, you bloody were.”

She paused. She was looking out of the window towards the four lines of caravans below their own. They marched towards the edge of the cliff and the sea. Only one of them was occupied at this time of year-the one nearest the cliff-and its kitchen light was on. This winked in the night as the rain fell against it.

“Jago’s home,” Tammy said. “We should have him over for a meal soon. It’s not good for elderly people to be on their own so much. And now he’s going to be…He’ll miss Santo badly, though I don’t expect he’ll ever admit it.”

Ah. There. The name had been said. Selevan could talk about the boy freely now. He said, “You’ll claim it was nothing, won’t you. A…what d’you call it? A passing interest. A bit of flirting. But I saw and I know you were willing. If he’d made a move…”

She picked up a plate. She washed it thoroughly. Her movements were languid. There was no sense of urgency in anything that Tammy did. She said, “Grandie, you misconstrued. Santo and I were friends. He talked to me. He needed someone to talk to, and I was the person he chose.”

“That’s him, not you.”

“No. It was both. I was happy with that. Happy to be…well, to be someone he could turn to.”

“Bah. Don’t lie to me.”

“Why would I lie? He talked, I listened. And if he wanted to know what I thought about something, I told him what I thought.”

“I saw you with your arms linked, girl.”

She cocked her head as she looked at him. She studied his face and then she smiled. She removed her hands from the water and, dripping as they were, she put her arms around him. She kissed him even as he stiffened and tried to resist her. She said, “Dear Grandie. Linking arms doesn’t mean what it might have meant once. It means friendship. And that’s the honest truth.”

“Honest,” he said. “Bah.”

“It is. I always try to be honest.”

“With yourself as well?”

“Especially with myself.” She went back to the washing up and cleaned her gruel bowl carefully, and then she began on the cutlery. She’d done it all before she spoke again. And then she spoke in a very low voice, which Selevan might have missed altogether had he not been straining to hear something quite different from what she next said.

“I told him to be honest as well,” she murmured. “If I hadn’t, Grandie…I’m rather worried about that.”