Chloe (41 page)

‘Do you believe in giants?' she asked some time later and once they had caught their breath back from an arduous climb. ‘William?'

‘I don't see why not,' he reasoned, ‘though I've never had the pleasure.'

Chloë waited a few seconds, wondering whether it was wise to confide.

‘I have,' she said furtively; and her tales of Finn McCool took them right to Mac's door and on into his sitting-room. On their arrival, she spied
Gulliver's Travels
lying now on the occasional table, on top of
The Times
and underneath Mac's spectacles. She watched carefully as William fanned the pages and admired the binding. The photograph, it appeared, was gone.

The key was a clumsy iron piece with simple teeth and a plain punched end. To Chloë's delight, it
was
tied to a brown tag but the message was hardly ambiguous. ‘No. 3 Penbeagle Street, St Ives' was all it read. Mac could elaborate no further.

‘Did Jocelyn not say anything else?' Chloë implored.

‘Not that this tired old brain can remember,' apologized Mac.

‘So you actually knew her godmother then?' William asked.

‘Oh yes,' said Mac, ‘in our glory days.'

‘What a coincidence,' marvelled William.

‘Isn't it just,' agreed Chloë.

‘It is indeed,' Mac confirmed.

‘Tell me tales, please, from the glory days,' Chloë begged, snuggling deep into a chair while Mac nodded sagely and flipped through the memories as if leafing through a vast photo album.

‘Sounds as if she was a special character,' was all William could contribute.

‘You'd have loved her,' said Mac to William.

‘She'd have loved you,' furthered Chloë, half aloud but loud enough.

Number Three Penbeagle Street.
Chloë repeated the four words to herself frequently during her shift that evening.
Number three.
What a lovely day she had had.
Penbeagle Street
. He's called William, Jane, and he was just as nice on second viewing. On a par with the fudge brownies.
No. 3
. Two cappuccinos for the window table.
Penbeagle St
. Measly tip!

‘Night-night! See you tomorrow. Oh? Well I'm on an early so I'll see you the day after, then.'

Number Three Penbeagle Street
. Where was it? What did it mean?

But I'm exhausted and cold. It's too dark. Don't want to go on my own in the dark. I have the key, the key to Number Three.

Wonder what Number Three might be the key to?

Chloë went to sleep in William's jumper even though she was quite warm enough. She woke, however, very early and sweltering, and wriggled free from it. Sleep, it soon transpired, was to elude her until the next night-time. She padded over to the window and looked out over Porthmeor, cradling William's jumper in her arms. She buried her nose in deep. It did not smell of William, not that Chloë knew his scent just yet, but it smelled lovely; clean, of someone else's choice of fabric conditioner. She folded it neatly and placed it on top of her chest of drawers. Half an hour later, she decided she had cooled down sufficiently to slip it on again.

Later, when it was morning proper and a decorous time to greet the day, Chloë scolded her reflection before and after brushing her teeth.

‘Why oh why did I witter on about fairies and giants and heavens knows what else?'

I've blown it.

William had also woken with the dawn but he had risen with it. As he kneaded and wedged a batch of particularly uncompliant clay, he cursed himself with every push.

‘Why on earth did I bring pixies and the like into the conversation?' he chastised under his breath. ‘She'll think me quite soft.'

I ought to be more formal
, Chloë decided over her breakfast cereal,
appropriately reserved, I think
.

‘I think I should be just a little aloof,' William announced to Barbara, ‘guarded,' he furthered, ‘hold back somewhat. I'll call her tomorrow, then. The day after, perhaps. Probably.'

Chloë, it transpired, had cycled down Penbeagle Street on most days, having never known its name. It was narrow but bright and led straight to the front after dog-legging halfway down. Cobbled, there was no pavement, and a gully that started at the left coursed its way over to the right by the end of the street. It played havoc with the ball-bearings on Chloë's bicycle. She passed two Tea Shoppes with pastel shutters at the windows, a bookshop, a butcher's shop guarded by a plaster model of a chipped but cheery cleaver-brandishing butcher, a small shop selling prints and art books, another which stocked everything a fisherman might require. The buildings jigsawed into a lopsided terrace, formed over the years because of spacial necessity rather than during a specific building epoch or according to a particular architectural style. Penbeagle Street was pretty and quintessentially Cornish.

Number Three was the penultimate house on the west side. A single-storey building, its door was a dusty mustard colour, the paint clinging on in a precarious mosaic of cracks. The number ‘3' itself was delineated by a darker and uncracked mustard; an imprint of the number plate, long gone. There seemed to be no windows, just an expanse of chipboard emblazoned with a warning against bill stickers and declaring ‘Tamsin loves Jake' in small, neat letters, in the bottom right corner. Otherwise it was bare and gave no clue to the interior.

The notion that there was indeed an interior, was huge and daunting. Chloë regarded the key, then the keyhole, and decided she would be late for work if she stayed, even though she would arrive early if she left. She arrived early at the café and stayed on past her time. She cycled back via a longer route which bypassed Penbeagle Street. When she returned to her room, she slipped on William's jumper, said ‘Hullo, back in a mo' ' to Mrs Andrews and went directly to Mrs Stokes to ask if she might make a phone call.

‘Hullo?'

Lovely voice.

‘Will-iam? Chloë here. Cadwallader.'

Lovely voice.

‘Hey! I was going to call you. Not today, but tomorrow rather. Or the day after. Well, probably today actually!'

Laughter. Short, clipped, slightly embarrassed.

Silence. A little too long.

‘Well, anyway,' said Chloë, clearing her throat, ‘I was wondering if I could ask you a favour?'

‘Shoot!'

‘I couldn't quite do it, you see.'

‘What?'

‘Go in all by myself. To Number Three Penbeagle Street.'

‘Ah.'

‘I stood there for a while. It's all boarded up. The key fits. But I don't want to turn it alone, you see.'

‘I do see. Not sure what you might find?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Spiders? Mice?'

‘Exactly.'

‘I could do tomorrow morning.'

‘Brilliant. I'll see if I can change shifts. Thank you already, William. What time? Thank you. Look forward to it.'

‘Me too.'

Despite all her intentions, when Chloë heard the doorbell ring the next morning, she skipped down the stairs and flung open the door, greeting William with a radiant smile and an effervescent ‘Hullo there!' For his part, William forgot to suck in his cheeks and creased his face instead into an enormous grin which caused dimples like great crevasses and furled his lips right away from his teeth. There they stood, slightly breathless, sparkling away at each other. Mrs Stokes hovered out of sight but observed it all through a crack in the door.

‘Nice-looking couple,' she said to the saucepan with a wink as she heard animated laughter line the pathway and disappear only with the chug of a car engine.

H
itherto, of course, Chloë had not expected to come across a rather attractive man in Cornwall. Certainly not one who could cause an almost forgotten flutter deep within her. But there again, she had not foreseen Cornwall providing her with a friend in the making, in Jane. Nor presenting her with a lifestyle that evidently suited her, and a landscape which provided such a decorous backdrop to it all.

While William dragged his heels to the bank, Chloë reorganized her shifts.

‘A-
gain
!' Jane exclaimed, feigning shock and unable to conceal excitement. A local boy for Chloë? Good; perhaps she'd stay. ‘Still on a par with the brownies?'

‘Over par,' Chloë illumined.

‘But how does he rank with the banoffee pie?' Jane asked suspiciously.

‘Say, one and a half times as nice,' Chloë decided after much carefully contrived deliberation, ‘that is, at this point in the proceedings.'

Jane nodded and said ‘Proceedings, hey!' with a mouth full of biscuit mixture. ‘So what does he look like? Come on, come on!'

Chloë twisted her face as if she had to think hard. ‘Not bad,' she reasoned slowly, wondering whether William's hair was tawny, as in owl, or wicker, as in basket.

‘Not
bad
?' Jane mulled, pleasantly exasperated. She offered the bowl of biscuit mixture to Chloë who tunnelled her finger in.

‘More chocolate chips,' she suggested. Jane agreed and then sent Chloë on her way with a wink and ‘Be careful! Enjoy!'

‘He's just a nice bloke,' Chloë reasoned at Jane's raised eyebrow, ‘and he likes walking.'

Chloë tried the key tentatively, as if it could not possibly fit. She was surprised, almost a little disappointed, when it turned easily. William stood discreetly on the other side of the street, busying himself by half-heartedly reconciling his cheque-book; but as Chloë pressed persuasively against the door, she looked over her shoulder and beckoned him with her eyes. Inside, they stood in silence, in darkness and in dust. It was not long before they cleared their throats and declared ‘Heavens, let's get some air in here!'

Accustomed to the gloom, they made out a narrow door at the back of the room and found that the key worked this lock too. As they creaked the door open, a glance of light swung into the room; a long, gossamer triangle in which dust particles danced with relief. They saw chipboard on the inside of the back wall and, with a short plank which lay at his feet, William levered it away. An arched window, whose fanlight was a garland of stained glass, was revealed. They took stock of the room. It was utterly bare. But its proportions were pleasing and Chloë felt her smile broaden. Without speaking and without being asked, William went back outside the building and prised away the chipboard from the front. Another window was uncovered, no stained glass but a fine double sash all the same. Only one pane was cracked.

‘Nice, space!' encouraged William, catching Chloë's eye for a little too long before swiftly returning his attention to the room.

‘Isn't it just!' agreed Chloë, turning away to examine a wall and hide her blush.

William pointed to a corner. Chloë followed his direction and alighted on a long white envelope that, on closer inspection, had yellowed all around the edges and curled at the corners most forlornly.

‘I'll be outside,' said William tactfully.

‘Don't!' pleaded Chloë reaching out for his arm, but taking her hand back self-consciously before it made contact. ‘Please?'

He stood by her. Her hair smelt of lemons and he inched his face just a little closer to the back of her head. She drew the contents from the envelope. They were the deeds to Number Three Penbeagle Street. Chloë's name had been typed by a land agent's secretary and Jocelyn's signature, though bold and familiar, had undoubtedly faded. Neither the paper, nor the envelope, smelled of Mitsuko.

‘It's yours!' William congratulated, flicking the paper between thumb and forefinger.

‘It is, isn't it!' Chloë marvelled, kissing the deeds quickly and clutching them to her breast.

They spent the morning examining the building. The back door and arched window looked out over a walled, small sunken garden that was currently obscured by rubble and chickweed, beer cans and a dead gull. Inside, apart from the useful plank and a dusty but unused polystyrene cup, the room was totally bare. And large. William paced it out and declared it to be a good thirty-five feet by almost the same. He pointed out the original coving and crouched on his knees to inspect the skirting-boards which he declared a find. As Chloë sat on her heels beside him to inspect it, she rested her hand on his shoulder. Naturally, lightly; both to steady herself and because she just wanted to.

‘I've never thought much about skirting-boards before,' she confided, hoping he would not judge her because of it.

They grinned at each other and touched foreheads gently, just for a moment.

‘You smell lemony.'

The bareness of Number Three Penbeagle Street gave Chloë a headache. The building was empty and yet stuffed full of possibility. The building, after all, was hers. Hitherto, the most valuable item she had owned was the mountain bike she had bought the previous month; the most precious, Jocelyn's brooch. Now Jocelyn had bequeathed her an empty building to do with as she liked, and for which she had so many glimpsed ideas that they ricocheted around her mind in an indecipherable and unfathomable tangle. Chloë's head was thrumming. William said that he knew a cure. Chloë remarked to herself, as casually as she could, that he very well might
be
the cure.

They drove up the coast to Portreath where they ate baked potatoes oozing with dark yellow butter. Then they atoned for the cholesterol with a bracing walk along the cliff, on a stretch of coastal path as spectacular and unique as anywhere else on the north coast. The cliffs, soaring up from the sea and plummeting down deep into it, were buffed brown and beige, streaked through with pink and grey, striated with ivory. William gave a theatrical discourse about granite intruding into the surface rock, about metalliferous veins. He explained that the resultant natural beauty that Chloë so admired had solicited the mining industry which had so scarred the landscape with man's greedy mark.