The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Read online

  Also by Emma Burstall

  Gym and Slimline

  Never Close Your Eyes

  The Darling Girls

  Tremarnock Series

  Tremarnock

  The Cornish Guest House

  Tremarnock Summer

  A Cornish Secret

  THE GIRL WHO CAME HOME TO CORNWALL

  Emma Burstall

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Emma Burstall 2019

  The moral right of Emma Burstall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781786698872

  ISBN (E): 9781786698865

  Jacket painting: Claire Henley

  Author photograph: Anna McCarthy

  Map: Amber Anderson

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  To Yael, Jonathan, Alex, Fia, Gloria and Monica. Thank you for sharing your beautiful Mexico with me.

  Map

  Chapter One

  Rick adjusted the postcard display outside his gift shop, wondering idly if customers would mind about the odd dog-eared corner and dirty smudge. He hoped not. Some of his cards had certainly seen better days but there was nothing wrong with the photos on the front of the stunning Cornish coastline, whitewashed fishermen’s cottages and quaint cobbled streets.

  Trouble was, folk didn’t seem to send so many cards these days; they stuck their pictures on Facebook and the like instead. Shame.

  He could still remember how his mother, long since gone, had given pride of place on her mantelpiece to the cards she’d received; she’d read them over and over, sometimes out loud with an annoying running commentary thrown in: ‘Uncle Graham and Auntie Maeve have gone to Mallorca this year. Fancy that! It was the Costa Brava last year, and the year before. I expect they wanted a change of scenery…’; and, ‘The hotel looks nice. I hope that pool’s heated, otherwise if I know Maeve, she won’t be setting foot in it!’

  A sudden gust sent the multicoloured windmills in a bucket by Rick’s feet swirling around and light caught the shiny foil, making him blink. It was the first Saturday in June, sunny and bright, but the air was still cool, especially at night when you needed a sweater.

  A few postcards fluttered off the rotating display stand that he carried from his shop, Treasure Trove, every morning, and placed on the uneven cobbles. As he knelt down to gather them together, something made him turn to look over his shoulder up narrow, winding South Street past the rows of shops and cottages that led to Humble Hill.

  At first all he could make out was a moving mass of colour – canary yellow with splashes of emerald, pillar-box red and royal blue. He narrowed his eyes and as the image came into focus, he started, nearly knocking the display stand flying, and had to steady himself against the wall. ‘What the…?’

  Sashaying towards him, in a swishing yellow skirt with a bright green pattern, was the most attractive woman that he thought he’d ever seen. From his squatting position he scanned quickly upwards, taking in her strappy red espadrilles, shapely calves, slim waist and generous bust, encased in a tight blue cardigan. He had to pinch himself to make sure that he wasn’t daydreaming.

  She paused for a moment, bending down to retie the laces on her shoes. She was flesh and blood, for sure, no figment of his imagination. When she stood up again, his gaze settled on her face, but from this distance all he could really see was red lipstick, a creamy-brown complexion, dark eyebrows and thick, wavy, shoulder-length black hair.

  He whistled under his breath. She was getting nearer now, just a few metres away. There was no one else in the street and fearing that she might notice him bent double and gawping, he looked away quickly and stood upright, pretending to rearrange his postcards. Every now and then, however, he couldn’t help darting furtive glances in her direction and the closer she came, the more his heart pitter-pattered. He didn’t know what had come over him.

  Rick, who was in his early sixties, had lived for most of his life in the little seaside village of Tremarnock. Although the place was very quiet in winter, in summer, tourists flocked from near and far to enjoy the beaches, water sports and spectacular local scenery. It wasn’t unusual to see groups of all different nationalities sauntering in and out of the pubs, rental houses and shops, including his own.

  This woman, however, was different from the usual crowd. With her chin raised, shoulders back and arms swinging loosely by her side, she was alone, yet didn’t appear lonely; on the contrary, she looked quite confident, as if she were accustomed to her own company and, indeed, rather enjoyed it.

  Although she was walking quite fast, she didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Instead, she was taking her time, looking left and right, absorbing her surroundings and savouring the moment – the feel of the wind in her hair and the sun on her back. She looked like a free spirit, Rick decided, which he found interesting and strangely moving, too.

  A small brown and white dog ran out of one of the houses a little way up the street, yipping wildly: Sally, the Jack Russell belonging to Jenny and John Lambert, who owned Oliver’s, the fishing tackle shop on the seafront.

  Jenny, who was short, blonde and in her late forties, hurried out soon after, grabbing the dog’s collar and clipping her firmly on the lead. Sally was always escaping; she was known for it. Many were the times that Rick and the other villagers had had to join in search parties, scouring the beach and nearby countryside for clues.

  Luckily, so far they’d always managed to locate the dog in the end, usually down a rabbit hole or rootling in the undergrowth of the neighbouring woods, but everyone feared that one day she might be gone for good.

  Once Rick had established that the dog was safely tethered, he glanced again at the stranger, who was now almost alongside him, and unintentionally caught her gaze.

  A pair of large, round, greenish-brown eyes stared back and seemed to smile at him mysteriously. His heart beat louder in his chest; it was all he could do not to ga
sp. His own eyes must have been popping out on stalks, he couldn’t help it, and when he finally tore his gaze away, he noticed that her red lips were turning up slightly at the corners, as if in amused recognition, and two little dimples had appeared in her cheeks. At that moment, he was well and truly hooked.

  ‘Good morning,’ the woman said in a foreign accent, pausing for a moment in front of the postcard display, behind which he was lurking.

  Rick, who was normally quite voluble, felt the blood rush to his face and could only muster a muted, ‘Morning,’ back.

  ‘Beautiful day,’ she went on, craning her neck slightly so that she could see him more clearly.

  He nodded, noticing for the first time the fine lines running horizontally across her brow and around her eyes. She wasn’t quite as young as he’d assumed. Mid thirties, perhaps? He wasn’t very good on ages. His pulse quickened. Perhaps he was in with a chance.

  Silly old fool! He gave himself a mental shake. She was only being friendly. Someone like her could have anyone she wanted. Besides, she was probably happily married with three kids!

  She seemed to hesitate, maybe hoping that he’d strike up a conversation.

  ‘The sun’s nice and warm but there’s a chilly breeze,’ he commented, wishing even as he spoke that he was the sort of bloke who always had a witty comment up his sleeve.

  She hugged her arms around her, as if to acknowledge the nippiness in the air, before reaching out, taking a postcard and examining the scene on the front.

  ‘I’ll have to come back another time,’ she said after a moment, popping the card back. ‘I don’t have any cash with me now.’

  Rick wanted to say that she could have any of his cards – all of them, in fact – for free, if only she’d stay and tell him everything there was to know about her. But he was in such a state that he could only manage a grunt.

  She smiled again before bidding him goodbye, then turned on her heel and walked off, raising her chin and swinging her arms again as she headed past his shop to the seafront.

  It required an almost superhuman effort not to stare after her, and Rick was still trying to compose himself when someone coughed loudly, making him jump.

  ‘She’s very colourful!’

  Jenny Lambert smiled cheekily at Rick, who acted as if he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Who? Oh her,’ he said fake-nonchalantly, when Jenny signalled in the stranger’s direction. He couldn’t help adding, ‘Who do you think she is?’

  Jenny, in a green Barbour jacket and stout walking shoes, was still hanging on to Sally, who was straining at the lead, keen to be off. Jenny never needed much of an excuse to stop and gossip.

  ‘There’s a foreign lady staying at Polgarry Manor for several weeks. Mexican, apparently. Maybe that’s her.’

  Polgarry Manor was the large, rambling guest house on the cliff above Tremarnock, which the owner also rented out for weddings and other big events.

  Rick pulled thoughtfully on his bushy grey beard, which almost met up with his whiskery sideburns.

  ‘She’s foreign all right. Could be Mexican with that dark hair and complexion. A few weeks, you say?’ His eyes widened.

  ‘That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘Here for quite a spell then?’

  Images of those red espadrilles and scarlet lips, that tight blue cardigan and those greenish-brown eyes swam into his mind, like a vivid dream.

  ‘I wonder what’s brought her to Tremarnock?’

  *

  Chabela smiled to herself as she left behind the man with the funny grey beard and sideburns and strolled towards the beach.

  She’d made quite an impression on him, that much was obvious, but it didn’t surprise her. She was accustomed to male admiration as well as female stares, though these weren’t always quite so friendly.

  She was well aware that she was beautiful and it had certainly come in handy down the years, but she’d never allowed it to define her. Rather, she regarded her good looks as just one of many elements that combined to make Isabela Adriana Penhallow Maldonado, or Chabela for short, the woman that she was. Penhallow was her paternal surname, Maldonado, her mother’s, and she used both, as was the custom in Mexico.

  There was no rush, in fact she had all the time in the world, and after strolling past the public loos on her left, she stopped to admire the hanging baskets outside the Lobster Pot pub, which were stuffed with trailing blue lobelia and pink geraniums, just coming into bloom.

  The pub door was closed and propped up against a wall inside the porch was a blackboard, on which someone had chalked: ‘Moules Frîtes – Hand Baked Cornish Pasty and a Pint – Potted Shrimps – Village Scrumpy. Come on in!’ Alongside was a rough drawing of a jolly farmer on a haystack.

  Before long, Chabela guessed, the sign would be placed outside on the pavement and folk would start to wander in but for now, all was quiet.

  It was so different from the dusty, densely populated street in the Colonia del Valle neighbourhood of Mexico City where she’d grown up, lined with tall, modern apartment buildings and row upon row of parked cars.

  There, people gathered in cafés and restaurants from early in the morning till late at night, talking and laughing in loud, excited voices. Instead of hanging baskets, there were giant tubs of bougainvillea and violet-blue jacaranda, as well as palm trees, rubber plants and cacti.

  Nostalgia nibbled at her insides, until she remembered that she’d come here to escape her old life, at least for a while. Savour the differences, she told herself. Enjoy the foreignness. You’ll soon be treading those familiar streets and seeing those same old faces again…

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of loud bangs and she swivelled around sharply. A youngish, dark-haired man inside the pub appeared to be pounding on the frame of a small, lead-paned window, which suddenly flew open, nearly coming off its hinges in the process.

  As the man stuck out his arm to pull the window back in and secure the metal fastening, he spotted Chabela just a few feet away and his jaw dropped. He looked so funny that Chabela couldn’t help smiling and his face lit up in a delighted grin, which made her smile even more.

  It felt good to spread a little happiness, she thought, as she gave a wave and continued on her way. However, having had a mother whose beauty had bowled men over, but who’d been quite incapable of taking care of herself, Chabela had worked out long ago that you couldn’t get by in this world on looks alone. After all, a car with great bodywork but poor suspension, an unreliable engine and defective steering was no use to anyone, and even as a child she’d known that she wanted to contribute something to the world, although back then she wasn’t sure what.

  While her mother had worked through a string of husbands, popping pills and drowning her sorrows in tequila in between, the young Chabela had focused more on her mind than her appearance. She’d strived hard at school, gained top results and won a scholarship to a good university in Mexico City.

  After graduating with a First, she’d stayed on to do a PhD in Latin American studies, then ‘Doctora Penhallow Maldonado’, as she became known, took up the post of junior lecturer at the same institution.

  Much respected by students and colleagues alike, she’d loved her job and could happily have spent her entire working life there, so it was quite a shock when she was headhunted by Mexico City’s most prestigious university and offered a promotion. She might even have turned it down, had not her peers warned her against committing career suicide.

  She was thirty-two years old when she accepted her new position, still single and vaguely aware that her biological clock was ticking, but not unduly bothered by the fact. She’d dated plenty of boys and men down the years, but her mother’s disastrous track record with relationships had made her wary of commitment.

  She thought that she’d like to have children, but not at any price, and the truth was that she’d never been properly in love – that is, until she met Professor Alfonso Hernández Soler.

  His name s
eemed to dangle tantalisingly in the air before her and her stomach tightened into a hard, painful knot. She hadn’t thought of him for, what, at least half an hour? That must be a record. And now here she was again, about to go down the same old path that led precisely nowhere.

  Angry with herself, she crossed the road and walked briskly along the track by the sea wall before descending some stone steps on to Tremarnock Beach, which was small, horseshoe-shaped, and sheltered on both sides by rocky promontories.

  After bending down to untie her espadrilles and remove her shoes, she wiggled her toes on the shingly sand, enjoying the feel of roughness beneath her feet.

  It was low tide and some way off, near the water’s edge, a man in a brown jacket and wellington boots was walking his golden retriever. Every now and then he’d throw a stick and watch the dog plunge joyfully after it into the waves before hurtling back, brandishing its trophy between its jaws. Then it would deposit the stick at the man’s feet and he’d hop back smartly before the animal shook itself vigorously, spraying water high into the air and all around.

  Further out, some orange buoys were bobbing in the choppy waves and beyond them were a couple of small fishing boats with dark nets dangling over the sides.

  Picking up her shoes, Chabela walked a little way towards the grey-blue ocean, inhaling the scent of fresh, salty air. A clock struck ten a.m. in the distance and as she closed her eyes, the chimes mingled with the piercing cries of seagulls, drowning out the nagging chatter in her head.

  Then Alfonso’s handsome face and intelligent brown eyes flooded her consciousness again. Was there no escape? Something seemed to press down hard on her chest, compressing her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

  It was no use. Having lost control of her thoughts, she gave up trying and allowed them to drift where they wanted – which was straight back to him, of course.

  Everywhere she looked, she could picture his features. His profile was there in the patterns of the waves and as she glanced up, every passing cloud reminded her in some way of him.