Recipes for Melissa (7 page)

Sam’s idea was to make a trip into Troodos on his Grandfather’s behalf. He was explaining now to Melissa more details from his research; that the official British Cemetery was tricky to access and, in any case, the British dead were apparently buried in the ‘no-man’s’ land controlled by the UN, twixt the Cypriot south and Turkish-controlled north.

‘All a bit sensitive these days and I’m not for rocking the boat or upsetting anyone. I was thinking of something low key. You know – find a church. Light a candle. Pay respects. What do you think, Mel?’

‘Definitely. I told you. I think it’s a really lovely idea.’

‘OK then. Monday.’

Melissa still felt very tired herself on the drive but was surprised by a second wind as they arrived in the small and largely unspoilt resort of Polis to find their apartment even better than detailed online. It was spacious and had been completely refurbished since the photo shoot, with an airy sitting room, a vibrant colour scheme and a huge, modern bathroom tiled floor to ceiling. It had a small shared pool with cafe alongside and was walking distance from the beach.

There was just one problem now dawning as Melissa got her bearings, moving swiftly from room to room. The apartment was entirely open-plan. No door to separate the bedroom from the sitting area with its additional sofa bed. She had not noticed this when they booked and was wondering now how she would find the space and privacy to deal with her mother’s journal.

Melissa still felt uncomfortable keeping it from Sam. But she needed the space to get her head around it all before deciding if it was right to tell him before her father.

Sam liked a lie-in but could easily surprise her as he had last night, and any light, even the lamp, was bound to disturb him.

Melissa frowned and glanced through the patio doors. There was no way she would take the book to the pool. It could get wet; damaged. Also the terraces and sunbathing area were clearly visible from their balcony. She felt nervous suddenly, even thinking about the journal. The image of her mother writing it.

‘So you don’t mind, Mel, do you, if I take a stroll into town? Check out where to eat later?’ Sam, standing behind her, sounded sheepish – entirely unaware that this, their familiar arrival dynamic, was now to be a gift. Melissa liked to swim before unpacking while Sam liked to get his bearings. Did not settle until he had worked out the lie of the land.

‘Sorry?’

‘I was wondering if you minded me taking a recce? Earmark a restaurant.’

‘Oh right. No. Not at all. You go,’ Melissa smiled and then watched from the balcony as he turned the corner, pausing for a moment to run his hand through his hair – that familiar little gesture of self-consciousness. As ever, he was also looking upwards. Even as a child, Sam, the born architect, had done this – walked with a permanent tilt to his chin, forever checking out the buildings, the balconies and the rooftops. And now he was noticing the signposting to the town square, turning to disappear from view. Melissa took her mother’s book from the zipper case in the foul pink bag, heart racing to find that – no; it had not been crushed.

Cheese straws…

…and then to three of the strips I rolled inside a huge quantity of really strong cayenne…

Oh Lordy! I thought we had given him a heart attack
.
We hadn’t of course, and then how we laughed. That made it all so worth it. Can’t tell you, Melissa, how happy it makes me to think of it.

I do so hope you will remember how much we all laughed…

Melissa had been reading for ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops and closed the book on the shiny, pine table by the kitchenette – aware of the oddest sensation of
returning
. Back suddenly in this strange room. She stared down at the unfamiliar wood – a little too orange, its heavy lacquer stamped with circular stains from hot mugs – and was again struggling to find the scene that her mother had been describing. Jaws? She remembered some body board with a shark – at least she thought she did. There was a photograph of her carrying it in a frame at her father’s house, so maybe she was just remembering that? But – no. Try as she might, she could not work it out. Did not remember the joke with the cheese straws at all.

Melissa stood up and paced. She went over to the window, hands on her hips, to watch the activity by the pool. There was a father teaching his son to dive. Holding his stomach as he bent his back to the right angle, stretching out his arms straighter and pressing his hands together.

Melissa paced. To and fro, searching for the memory. But – no. She turned back to watch the child complete the dive, the father applauding as the boy surfaced.

So – where was it? Her picture?

She thought of Sam, always babbling with stories of larks and of laughs as kids with his older brother Marcus.

Melissa had read somewhere that most people could recall events from around the age of three. That technically gave her five years of memories with her mother. So where precisely had she put them?

Melissa placed the book quickly back into the zipped case and concealed it among T-shirts, which she unpacked from the monster case into the shelves of the bedroom wardrobe. She then found her swimming things and headed out to the pool. Five lengths of breast stroke. Five of crawl. Five of butterfly stroke.

By the time she had returned to the apartment and fully unpacked, Sam was back – looking for a nap ahead of their evening out.

Later they enjoyed their first dinner at an excellent taverna – right on the town square, with children playing in a disused fountain nearby. Melissa watched them mesmerised, at first smiling and then her expression changing as a ripple of discomfort and realisation began slowly to move through her.

Sam watched the children also but pointedly made no reference. Instead they each talked – only upbeat – about the food and the wine and how lovely it was that Polis was so unspoilt. Not high-rise. Neither of them mentioning the subject now temporarily taboo.

Their future.

The children playing in the fountain.

They spent the weekend relaxing and mostly reading – talking very little – and then rose early on Monday for Troodos. It was impossible to know precisely where Edmund had been patrolling and so they chose a church at random on the map, some forty minutes within the forest. The journey took longer than they had expected – unable to resist regular stops for photographs of the spectacular views from the winding mountain roads. En route to the village originally earmarked, they happened upon an utterly charming and particularly atmospheric hamlet, with women crocheting and gossiping around a neat, village square.

After coffee and pastries at a cafe, they headed through a stone arch off the square to find a cool and quiet Byzantine church where Sam decided there was no need to travel any further. This was perfect. He lit two candles – one for his grandfather and one for the man he had held in his arms all those years ago. Melissa watched the blokey awkwardness as Sam stood utterly still, hands on his hips. He had been close to his grandfather who taught him to fish and in his will had left him all his kit. It was in the garage and Melissa caught Sam just staring at it some days. Standing ever so still for a moment. Hands on hips. Just like this.

She waited, saying nothing, until he walked ahead outside and then, as a memento for him, took a picture of the two candles against the background of the stained-glass window before quietly lighting a third candle for all the Cypriot young men who had been lost. And one for her mother also.

They had parked the hire car on a steep road on the outskirts of the village, unsure how difficult it would be to find a spot in the centre and it was as they walked back to the vehicle, around a wide bend that everything changed.

From the quiet and the stillness of the church there was suddenly the intrusion of a tremendous roar. Melissa was walking a few steps behind Sam who had struck up a conversation with a young, local man as the roar registered. She turned to see a great swirl of dust as the motorcycle lost control on the bend. With tremendous screeching, it then slid at an angle directly towards Sam.

And then everything happened very, very quickly.

And also in slow motion.

9

ELEANOR – 1994

Eleanor flipped down the sun visor to check her face in the mirror and in leaning forward caught a glimpse of Melissa in the back – the new body board still across her lap.

‘You can put that down, you know – sweetie.’

‘I’m going to call it Jaws.’

‘You haven’t seen
Jaws
,’ Eleanor glared across at Max as he indicated to overtake. ‘At least – I hope you haven’t?’

‘Daddy let me see the nice bits. The bit where the little boy copies his dad. And the bit where they’re all on the beach and—’

‘I thought that was our little secret, darling…’

‘Tell me, you didn’t let her see
Jaws
?’

‘Only a very little bit by accident. No gore.’

‘So that’s why she wanted the body board with the shark?’

Max shrugged.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t put her off the sea completely. Oh Max. Really.’

‘The sharks are only in America and Australia, Mummy. Not in Cornwall. And in the film they killed it. Daddy was watching and I was doing colouring.’

‘I switched channels, Eleanor. It’s no big deal. I didn’t even realise she was looking. As soon as I did, I turned over. It was ten minutes. Maximum.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘You let her watch
Dr Who
videos.’

‘Yes – but not the Cybermen.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh come on, Max.
Jaws
? She’s seven, Max.’

‘I’m nearly eight.’

Max and Eleanor exchanged a conciliatory glance.

‘I’m sorry, Eleanor. I’ll be more careful. She didn’t see anything gross, I promise you.’

‘How long till we get there, Mummy?’

‘One more coffee stop and then about an hour.’

Twice a year they made this trip. It was Max’s idea. He had been taken to Cornwall for bucket and spade holidays by his own parents and wanted Melissa to know the ups and downs of the old-fashioned seaside break. The zip of a wetsuit in a cold wind. Tea in flasks. Sand in sandwiches. Eleanor, whose parents had both taught, spent every summer in France as a child – gîtes mostly – so was less convinced, but Max’s knowledge of the best coves and beaches around the Lizard peninsula very soon won her over.

By the time Melissa was toddling, Max had taken up a new post at the university and, with a more flexible timetable, they often managed a long weekend in addition to a week at Easter and during the summer. Eleanor and Melissa, over time, became as enthusiastic as Max – loving the coastal walks, the steep streets of cottages tumbling down to the sea and the early evening spent watching children race crabs on the shoreline.

Melissa would watch, mouth gaping – just that little bit too shy to join in – but shrieking with laughter when some of the competitors set off in entirely the wrong direction.

She also grew to love all manner of seafood, just like her mother – with Max knowing exactly where to buy straight off the boats.

They stayed, wherever possible, in the same cottage overlooking the beach in Porthleven – a small and unspoilt fishing port with art galleries and a good choice of restaurants, cafes and gift shops where Melissa loved to buy shells and polished pebble pendants while Max watched the boats returning with their catch.

Sometimes Eleanor wondered if they should cast their own net wider but was so tired by the end of each term that the familiarity and the rhythm of the same cottage was too much to resist. Beach View, the three-bed they rented, was owned by a couple in their late fifties – the Huberts – who lived in the centre of Porthleven themselves and used the income to boost their early retirement. They were sweet and considerate – leaving a tray set for tea with scones, home-made jam and clotted cream in the fridge for every new visitor.

‘Yay! Cream tea!’ Melissa would chime as they opened the stable door into the kitchen to clock the treat already set out on the table. And Eleanor had come to love the rhythm and the echo of all these things. The sense of a memory being etched deeper and deeper with every repetition.