A Cornish Stranger (12 page)

‘Do you mind if I use the shower?'

‘You don't have much choice as there isn't one in the ­studio.' She wished he'd just do it without asking. She didn't want to think about him.

‘Thanks. I won't be long.'

‘Is that you Gabriella?' Mrs Bates called from outside.

‘Yes.' Gabe walked to the door.

‘I was passing and just wanted to be sure you were settled in all right. I hear you have a strange man staying.'

Gabe pushed down her shoulders as the tension rose in her. ‘We're fine, and yes, we have a man staying with us. The one whose boat was wrecked.'

‘The one that was with you in the shop? So good-looking.' She wiggled her girth and stood straighter. ‘But you need to be careful of strangers. You know nothing about this man.'

Gabe nodded, agreeing with her, but at the same time feeling the urge to tell her to piss off. ‘Wise words, Mrs Bates. I'm sure he won't be here for long.'

‘I hope he will be.' Jaunty had come up behind Gabe without a sound.

‘You're looking well, Jaunty. Having Gabriella here has lifted you I can see.'

‘Nonsense. I was fine on my own.' Jaunty moved to the kitchen and placed a cup in the sink, and Fin walked into the room dressed only in a towel. Jaunty grinned and Gabe swallowed. ‘But it's good to have a man about the place.'

Mrs Bates blushed and colour rose in Gabe's face.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't expect anyone here.' He nodded to all three women and eased out of the back door. ‘If you'll excuse me . . .'

‘I say!' Mrs Bates turned and watched him walk to the studio.

You would.
Gabe was most interested in Jaunty's reaction. Her eyes were smiling and less sadness pulled at her face. ‘Thank you for dropping by and checking on us, Mrs Bates. I'm afraid we can't stop any longer as Jaunty has an appointment, so if you will excuse us?'

The woman left with no further questions.

‘I don't have an appointment.' Jaunty turned to Gabe.

‘You're right, you don't.'

‘You've changed.' Jaunty turned on the tap to fill a glass.

‘Yes.' Gabe walked into her room and shut the door. She needed to work and this was her only space. But she had forgotten that Fin had used her shower and the room smelled of him.

 

The journey to the studio took longer than Jaunty remembered. She had to stop frequently to fill her lungs, but while Gabriella was occupied she must act. She almost lost her nerve but moved forward to the door, as there was no time to waste. ‘I gather from the way you look at paintings that you know a thing or two about art.' Jaunty leaned against the doorjamb to the studio. Fin was pulling a shirt over his head and again she was jolted back in time. It was here, where the studio now was, that she and Alex had first made love.

‘I'm an art dealer and historian.' He looked at the paintings about the room. Some of them were her best and some her worst.

Jaunty swallowed. ‘I thought as much.' Doubt filled her, but his profession might work in her favour.

He cocked his head to one side just the way Alex had. Alex had always questioned her assumptions. He was good for her. Dietrich had simply loved her.

‘You have been trained to look at a work, assessing each of the aspects, from brushwork to colour to perspective and so on, as if you were reading a text. Other people look at art, and my work in particular, and just
feel
something, but they are not sure quite how or why they do.' Jaunty turned to him. ‘You read the painting first, then step back and, I hope, feel it.'

He laughed and a shiver ran over Jaunty's skin. It was the caress of a memory. One so long buried that now, out of its hiding place, it made breathing difficult. A waft of pine scent blew through the door, the pleasure of her lover and the pain of the prickly needles against her skin all wrapped in the scent. How had she suppressed it for so long?

‘Who do you work for? What's your area of speciality?' Jaunty moved to her armchair. Her first instinct had been to go to the stool in front of the easel. But it and the easel had been moved. Instead she slipped into the overstuffed chair. It was still in her favourite position. If she turned her head to the right she could see the river and directly in front lay the mouth of the creek.

‘Who do I work for? Good question.' He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Before the divorce I shared my business with my wife. Now she owns it all and I owe her nothing. I am free.'

‘Hence drifting around the Helford on a boat.'

‘Well, yes.' He looked Jaunty directly in the eye. ‘You see, my grandmother died and left me
Jezebel
, some money and a few prized possessions of my great-uncle who died in the last World War – in fact, he drowned off the coast of Cornwall, not too far from here.'

Jaunty gave a dry laugh. She knew where this was leading even if Fin didn't. ‘Who was your great-uncle?'

‘Alexander Carrow.'

Her heart stopped for a moment, hearing his name spoken. ‘So you came to discover more about the man who left you a legacy?'

‘Yes. The legacy included a beautiful painting of the mouth of Frenchman's Creek and the cabin.'

Jaunty's hand flew to her heart and he leapt to his feet.

‘Are you OK?'

She knew the watercolour. She had painted it just after that fateful visit and given it to him as a gift before they parted. It was a promise. ‘Do you still have this painting?'

‘Yes, I salvaged it from
Jezebel
.'

‘May I see it?'

He rifled through some things at the side of the bed and pulled out a framed watercolour. Jaunty's chest tightened again. There was no doubt. He handed it to her and she could see her emerging style. But unlike the work that she was now known for, the landscape was obvious, whereas since the war the water was all. If there was land in the painting it was merged into the water to become part of it.

She had signed it with her first name only. It was odd to see it on the bottom of the paper. She looked up to find Fin watching her. He knew, but he didn't know. She turned the painting over in her hands. It was in the frame she had put it in and the original tape was still on the back, damaged but there.

‘It's lovely.'

‘Yes, it is.' He paused. ‘It's been bothering me.' He walked to the window facing the river and looked out. ‘It has been knocking away at the back of my mind, saying this style is familiar but . . .' He turned around and looked at Jaunty, waiting.

‘Yes, I see what you mean.' She got up and placed the painting on the bed and left the studio.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nine

 

 

 

 

J
aunty sat at her desk. The afternoon was grey with no breaks in the clouds. The river reflected the flatness. She had passed Gabe on her way out to the studio. She looked as if she was about to speak but had said nothing in the end. Life was passing her by before it had even begun. Jaunty had had life but then retreated into survival mode. But had she had any choice? No. Today it would be different, but back then there were very few choices available to her.

It was chaos in St Nazaire. Panic ruled and it became clear that Jean wouldn't get on the boat. Things were dire. The Nazis were bombing and we were, well and truly, in the terrifying midst of war. I looked at the fear in Jean's eyes. She would never survive in France and I knew what I had to do. We were similar enough in appearance that the photograph in my passport could be her. Once the boarding began I thrust my ticket and my papers into her hands and grabbed hers.

When she began to protest, I put my finger over her mouth. I told her what she already knew. I had a chance of survival here in France and she didn't. I told her I would find a way back to England. She was to let my father know I was alive and that I would do my best to get home. Her eyes widened and before she could do or say anything else I fled into the crowd and began to make a plan. I knew staying in a large port was not going to be safe.

Jaunty took a breath. Her chest was tight. She could smell the harbour, the scent of seaweed and rotting fish. She sat back and shook her head. She should remember the smell of burning, but no, it was fish she could smell. How Jean had hated fish and Jaunty had sent Jean to her death in the sea. She closed her eyes. What else could she have done? Jean, even if she'd survived the attack on the
Lancastria
, just before 4 o'clock that afternoon, couldn't swim. Jaunty had prayed for a long time that Jean had been killed instantly and hadn't drowned.

Jaunty did not want to think of drowning. She must continue writing.

I was alone with someone else's passport in an occupied ­country. I had some money and a bit of jewellery along with a set of watercolours. Not exactly the best tools for survival. However, I knew I needed to become someone else and not someone English. Part of it wouldn't be difficult. I was fluent in French and I knew Paris like the back of my hand.

There is much I could say, but I find I'm reluctant to dwell on some parts of the past. But you, Gabriella, need to know at least the minimum to understand how I came to be the woman you know as your grandmother. One night in a café, I met a Frenchman who was willing to help me and had the connections needed. I am not proud of what I did in return – just thinking about it makes me feel ill. However, after handing over my body, most of my jewellery and the watercolours, I had French papers. As quickly as I could, I left the port and headed to the coast of Brittany where I felt I had the best chance of getting back to England.

Eventually I found work and accommodation in a village on the coast. It was simple to be an art student from Paris because that is what I had been, although that part of my life suddenly felt very far away. Before those dreadful days I had never realised what a sheltered and protected life I had lived. Although life in Paris was wild and I had thought I was the most sophisticated woman, a few weeks travelling alone through occupied France changed any view I had of myself. I was simply a naïve young woman of nineteen who longed to be safe with my mother in New York or even dodging bombs with my father in London. Anything would have been preferable to being someone else in an occupied country with no idea of who to contact or how to leave France. A month before I would have laughed at myself. Then, I foolishly thought I had all the connections in the world and they would save me.

I kept to myself and no one questioned me. I got a job working in a bar and rented a box room from a fisherman's widow. It was the closest thing I could do to become invisible – hiding in plain sight. At night I would lie awake and pray for my parents, for Alex and for Jean. My parents would be grieving for me, believing their daughter had been lost with the other 4,000 souls on the
Lancastria
and I had no way to contact them. Each day I would visit the church and pray. The young curate would try and engage me in conversation but I always managed to slip away. I worked on the basis that the fewer people I allowed near me the safer I was, although the whole time I listened to every conversation, including that of the Nazis, when they arrived in the town. The more information I had, the safer I felt.

In the bar, I would chat with the soldiers grudgingly – or so I made it appear. It was a fine balance. I was fluent in German but told no one, knowing that that way the soldiers would talk freely in front of me and I would hear things. Slowly it dawned on me that some of the information I was overhearing could be useful to the allies.

By that time I'd been working in the bar about a year and knew all the locals. It was the hub of the village and I guessed that a shopkeeper, Richard Mauvieux, was the man I should contact for the resistance. The whispers I'd heard proved to be correct. He was the local leader and I began to feed information through him.

 

A stiff breeze howled through the pines as Gabe walked to the studio. The door was halfway open and, stopping just outside, she peered in and saw Fin flipping through the canvases stacked against the wall. She froze. What on earth was he doing? He had no right. She marched in.

He looked up and smiled. ‘Jaunty is an outstanding artist.'

Gabe took a step back. ‘Yes. Yes, she is.' Of course, she
thought, what human wouldn't be curious about the paintings of a famous artist if they were sleeping among them? Why must she always think the worst of people?

He glanced at the music in her hand. ‘You'd like to use the piano?'

‘Yes, please.' Gabe hovered near the doorway.

‘No problem. I'll get out of your way.' He picked up a file and his phone and Gabe backed out of the studio to let him pass, but his arm still managed to touch hers. She held her breath until the feeling aroused had passed. She closed the door firmly behind her and sat at the piano. She played scales, checking to make sure the tuner had done his job and that her hand was up to something more rigorous. She then launched into a Scriabin
Etude.

When she was finished she dropped her head on the piano and let her mind go blank. She wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there when she heard a tapping on the door.

‘Come in.' She sat up.

The door opened and Gabe prepared to face Fin. But it was Max Opie.

‘Hi.'

She blinked.

‘I asked about you in the shop,' he said, stepping tentatively through the doorway.

‘Ah.'

He cast a glance around the room and stopped at the view. ‘You're no amateur.'

Gabe shrugged. She was in no-man's-land. ‘Not a professional either, really.'

‘Interesting.' He turned to her.

‘Not interesting at all.' Gabe stood up and turned over the score that she had intended to work on once she had warmed up. He had been staring at it.

‘If you say so, but no amateur plays Scriabin like that.' He smiled.

‘I am only a professional musician in that I compose music for ads.'

He leaned against the piano. ‘It pays the rent?'

‘Well, yes.' Gabe pushed the stool under the piano. ‘How can I help?'

‘I need a soprano.' He smiled and hooked his thumbs into the pockets on his waistcoat.

Gabe shook her head. ‘Well, you've come to the wrong place.'

He stood straight and pushed his satchel behind his back. ‘I haven't.'

‘Look, I'm not some lost Cinderella looking for her place in a choir.' She walked to the window and watched the cormor­ant dive into the fast-flowing surface.

‘I googled you.'

Gabe's eyes opened wide. ‘Surely you are not that short of sopranos in Cornwall.'

‘No, there are many wonderful voices, and up-and-coming ones like Hannah. But I am composing an opera and I need a fully fledged professional soprano so that I can listen to it being performed the way it should be.'

Gabe looked at her fingers. To sing, to sing something new . . . Her hands began to shake. She looked up. The river's surface was disturbed and the swell still lingered from the storm. The tide was on its way out and the east wind was blowing in the opposite direction. She felt like the water, being pulled and pushed into two different directions. To sing again, joy.

He joined her at the window. ‘You wouldn't be singing in front of anyone but me.'

His hand touched her arm. She recoiled.
No
.

‘Sorry,' he said. He took a few steps back.

Max wasn't the man who had raped her. He looked like a little boy, so eager. She took a deep breath. ‘Can you leave the work with me and let me think about it?'

He smiled. ‘Of course.' He picked a pencil off a shelf and scratched down his number on the score. ‘Give me a call in a few days.' He began walking out but then stopped and turned. ‘What an amazing studio. I've always loved your grandmother's work.'

‘Thank you.' She watched him leave and when he was out of sight she picked up the piece. Her fingers ran over the notes on the first page. She could hear it in her head. Before long she was humming and then singing. The piece could have been written for her. She sat at the piano and played the score.

 

Random notes reached Jaunty, then drifted away on the breeze. She squeezed the pen between her fingers and watched the blood drain away. She must hold on to her thoughts. Clarity. Just tell the facts. But Jaunty wasn't sure what was fact and what was fiction. Things were slipping from her even now.

I had begun to pass information on to the resistance. It had taken a year but they had begun to trust me. I didn't socialise at all and made sure that no one had any reason to pay attention to me. As much as possible I was simply the woman who worked at the bar. For another year this is how I survived. Then, having provided good information, I became more a part of the team and eventually I was asked to meet Alain, the area coordinator. Everyone always spoke of him in hushed tones.

Gabriella, I thought he would dismiss me. But my small role had become so important to me. It made me feel less awful about Jean and about the pain I knew my parents must be experiencing.

The room is filled with cigarette smoke. I breathe deeply and rub my hands on my skirt. I long for one as I practise what I will say to Alain. I look up when I hear a knock and my breath catches. I am paralysed. Alex stands at the door. Blood drains from his face.

He doesn't move but continues to stare. Our eyes lock. I will myself to move but nothing happens. He closes the door. I find my feet and I am in his arms. I taste him. I feel him. I am against the wall and he is in me. I am complete.

Thank God no one was with us to witness my reunion with Alex. I was alive. He was alive, and for the moment that was all that mattered. After that meeting, my role increased. I would like to say it did because I was good, but truly it was so that Alex and I had reasons to be together and those infrequent reunions kept me sane. It became harder to pretend to myself and to others that I didn't have joy when I was so full of love. But it was vital for me to remain invisible, boring, the sort of woman no one takes any notice of.

In a world that was so wrong he was my joy, my passion. When I wasn't with him I trained myself not to think about him. It was so important. No one knew that we knew each other outside of France and we never spoke in English and we never spoke of home. All that longing went into our lovemaking.

Forgive me, Gabriella, I have wandered off again. I do want you to know that I did do something useful during the war because I fear that you will look on my life and see only its lies. At least then it was more than the lies, or maybe it was then that the lies mattered the most.

Jaunty lifted her pen when she heard a car on the track, but it didn't turn down the drive. Gabriella. Jaunty understood loneliness because it was all she had felt after the war and soon became all she craved. By the end of the war she had loved too much.

Love, promises, desire . . . gone . . .

Jaunty looked up when she heard Fin tap on her door. She put the book aside and called to him to come in.

He stood by the window looking out at the water. He turned to her. ‘Those pre-war paintings aren't yours, are they?'

Jaunty placed her fingers together. She could lie but she had done that enough. She stood. ‘No.'

A slow smile spread across Fin's face. Jaunty knew that she had solved his puzzle. But now that he had an answer what would he do with it? There was a knock at the door.

‘I'll get it.' Fin disappeared.

Jaunty walked through to the sitting room, considering what should happen next. Above all Gabriella must not be hurt. Jaunty looked at her paintings on the sitting-room wall. The deception had been obvious for years for anyone who ­really wanted to see it. Jaunty felt a twinge, reached for the door handle, and fell to the ground.

 

Gabe sang the scales quietly, building until her voice began to work properly. The score was brilliant and her heart begged her to sing it. The libretto was based on the story of the Lovers of Porthgwarra. She remembered reading the tale years ago in an old book of Jaunty's,
Popular Romances of the West of England
by Robert Hunt. Max had captured the lovers' ­anguish at being forced to separate and the parents' anger and prejudice beautifully. On the keys her fingers flowed through the opening bars, then she sang.