I Do Not Sleep (12 page)

What could I do to reassure Danny that I needed to do this to find peace? I would have to come up with an explanation about moving to Polperro that didn’t worry or bewilder him too much.

‘Danny, love,’ I began, carefully, ‘the thing is, and now you have Edie you’ll understand, that as a parent…’ I paused, swallowed hard, started again. ‘As a parent, losing a child is the worst possible thing that can happen to you. It drives you a bit mad. At least, it drove me mad. All that time, back home in Manchester, when you thought I was OK, well, I wasn’t really. Oh, I was carrying on, teaching, living; functioning as best I could. But I had no choice. I could have gone to pieces, had a breakdown. In some ways that would’ve been easier than waking up each morning, feeling normal for a couple of seconds and then, wham, it would hit me. Joey was dead – that was my first thought every day. And then I began to refuse to think that. No, he wasn’t dead. Where was the proof, where was his body? And I convinced myself he was still alive, waiting for me to rescue him. It was the only way I could keep going. The thought that I would find him, or he would find me, became central to my survival.’ I paused. ‘I hate to tell you this, Danny, but without that conviction, or delusion as your father calls it, I’m not sure I could have carried on.’

Danny looked shocked. ‘But what about me? What about Dad? What about Edie, for God’s sake? Don’t any of us matter to you too?’

‘I told you, Danny, losing a child drives you mad. It wasn’t that Joey was any more special than you, of course he wasn’t. I’m just telling you what I went through. The thing is, I started to think I was getting better, slowly. I hadn’t forgotten Joey, how could I? But I was beginning to think about the future more positively.’ I paused. ‘After Edie was born I felt much brighter, thought I saw a new purpose in life.’

Danny listened closely as I continued. ‘Everything was sort of going along okay– well, you know, I felt I was pretty stable. Until we came here, to Cornwall. And, I guess, with all the memories, I kind of imploded. Everything came back to me and I couldn’t face it; I need to do this. Sorry, Danny.’

Danny drove quietly. We were nearly there, the houses on the outskirts of Polperro staring down at us from the hill over the valley. Any minute now, we’d pull into that vast car park at the head of the village, and this conversation would be at an end.

‘I can understand all that, Mum. I’m sorry you felt so alone grieving for Joey. I don’t want you to think I wasn’t grieving too.’

‘Of course I knew you were grieving, Danny. The thing is, this grieving business is something you have to do alone. It’s really hard work, and you just have to get through it.’

‘Is that why you want to stay in Polperro by yourself? To grieve for Joey even more?’

I heard the slightly impatient note in his voice. He obviously thought I’d done more than enough mourning to appease the gods of grief, who knelt keening in the skies with their requiems, black robes and crucifixes.

‘It’s hard to explain. I need to be in Polperro alone with Joey’s… spirit. I’m hoping if I stay here for a while, where it all happened, I’ll get some kind of… closure.’

Oh horrible, horrible word, implying that grief and death come in a neat parcel, to be wrapped and sellotaped, and, who knows, even tied with a bow and a consoling little label advising you your ‘closure’ has arrived at last. Enjoy!

But right now I had to comfort Danny, had to tell him what he wanted to hear. And he had to accept it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We left the Peugeot in the car park and walked the short distance to the Crumplehorn Inn, the big ancient pub with an old watermill in the front courtyard which marked the top end of Polperro before the lane slopes languorously down to the harbour. The Inn is just across the road from the attractive row of little houses, roses wreathed round every door, known as the Crumplehorn cottages – where Ben now lived. I felt nervous. Ben was the last person I wanted to see at the moment. Later, yes, but right now, with Danny at my side knowing nothing of my previous meeting with him, I hoped the fact that it was only ten-thirty in the morning meant he wouldn’t be in the pub.

We could tell immediately that our appointed guest had arrived; he was sitting by himself in the Inn’s front courtyard drinking coffee. We’d never met him before, but Eric Mayhew Esq. couldn’t possibly have presented a more flamboyant picture of a seaside estate agent, specialising in properties in quirky historic villages such as this one. He wore a crumpled beige linen summer suit, a paisley cravat and a battered Panama hat. He would have managed to look slightly louche and arty, were it not for the mousey little moustache on his upper lip, which he fussily kept dabbing with an ornate art nouveau handkerchief. He sprang to his feet as soon as he saw us.

‘You must be Mrs Gabriel,’ he drawled in an unconvincing upper-middle-class accent. I acknowledged that I was, and introduced Danny.

‘Aha! The protective son, come to keep an eye on Mummy. That’s the ticket,’ he said offensively. I watched him sourly, said our time was short, and could he show us what he’d got.

‘But of course, of course, although I had hoped to buy you a coffee first and tell you all about this wonderful, unique village of ours.’

I told him I was very familiar with Polperro, had been coming here for years with my family, and so I didn’t need an introduction. He looked disappointed, then arch. He wagged his finger at me like Leslie Phillips in an old black and white movie. I half expected him to wink and say ‘Ding,
dong
!’

‘Don’t you even want to know about our pride and joy – the Miniature Village and Merlin’s Land of Legend?’ he twinkled.

I smiled thinly. ‘Mr Mayhew, I think Danny here could tell you more about the Land of Legend than you could bear to hear. Added to which, we’re hardly the target audience, knocking on a bit as we undoubtedly are.’

‘Ah yes, Mrs Gabriel. But a lady of your age is bound to be expecting grandchildren soon, don’t you think?’ And he actually winked at Danny. ‘I’m sure this fine young man has a twinkle or two in his eye, don’t you, lad?’ And he actually nudged Danny with his elbow.

Danny, more patient than I, was trying hard not to laugh. I, on the other hand, had had enough. I drew myself up to my unimpressive full height of five foot five, and said in my most school-marmish voice, ‘I’d like to see these properties now, if you don’t mind, Mr Mayhew. We don’t have much time. I believe you said there were two I might like?’

All the time Mayhew was wittering on, I’d been in an agony of suspense about Ben. I didn’t know which of the cottages he lived in, and I half expected him to materialise beside us any moment. And then – oh God – he would see Danny and I would have to explain to my son that Ben lived here now. Everything would get hideously complicated and Danny would think my decision to stay in Polperro was even stranger than he’d imagined. Surely he would find my prior knowledge of Ben’s presence in the village inexplicable, even sinister. And he would feel he had to tell Adam, which didn’t bear thinking about. My husband would sweep down here in a fury, accusing me of going behind his back. Which I had done, but I wouldn’t have had to if he’d only agreed to meet Ben in the first place.

We left the Crumplehorn at a cracking pace, set by me. Danny and Mr Mayhew scurried to keep up. Of course, staying here in the village I knew I could bump into Ben at any time. Everyone here lived in each other’s pockets, used the same post office, the same newsagent’s, the same baker’s. But if I were on my own it wouldn’t matter so much. In fact it was an important part of my plan to make friends with Ben, to slowly gain his confidence so he would gradually reveal more details of Joey’s last day. If Adam was right and Ben was keeping something back. I was determined to discover what it was.

We walked swiftly down the main street, past the bed and breakfasts with their gaily painted front doors and the tiny ornamental bridges which led to each house, allowing B&B holiday guests to arrive with their feet dry as they picked their way gingerly across the little brook which ran through the whole village. After a few yards, Danny laughingly begged me to slow down, because he wanted to reminisce about our family walks along this small but tumbling stream when he and Joey were very small. They found it endlessly fascinating, and after we explained about the constant tiny waterfalls that interrupted the burbling water’s fast and furious flow, they would run ahead and stop at each one, shouting, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir?’ And, ‘Is that a little weir as well?’ It drove us bonkers then, in an amused and indulgent kind of way, but looking back, what lovely times; how perfect and wonderful they were, those short and vivid parts of our lives. Unremarkable and trivial as they happen, we don’t yet understand that we should hold onto them, grab and engrave them on our hearts; because they are precious beyond rubies, and we shall remember and mourn them for the rest of our lives.

When we reached the post office we ignored the lane branching off to the right that led to the harbour and the Blue Peter. I marched swiftly straight ahead, glad not to have to see either of those haunted sites again, and soon after we’d passed the newsagent’s, we reached our destination. It was the Warren, a narrow lane of tiny cottages, some ornately decorated with seashells. I trembled slightly. Joey and Ben’s final ill fated holiday-let had been close to the Warren. My mind had blanked out the exact location, but I really didn’t want to stay anywhere so near.

A few doors on, Mr Mayhew stopped in front of a little whitewashed dwelling that looked charming and cosy, but some deep primitive instinct made me loathe it on sight. Eric Mayhew turned the key in the lock, opened the door and in we went, the agent cheerful and enthusiastic, me hesitant and reluctant.

‘Here we are, Mrs Gabriel. I’m sure you’ll agree that this little place is deeply romantic and very picturesque.’

I tuned him out, looking round with a dismay that was quite unreasonable. The cottage was pretty enough, with attractive interior stone walls painted white, what looked like amateur but jolly little pictures of fishing boats on the walls, and simple rustic furniture. There was a tiny but functional kitchen, and the whole place was immaculate and obviously freshly decorated. Mayhew informed us that there were two bedrooms and a small bathroom upstairs, if I’d like to take a look. But somehow, I didn’t like. For no real reason, I couldn’t imagine living here, even for two weeks. And it was so dark. Of course, most of the old cottages in this particular row were dark because there were so few windows. These seamen’s houses had been built for shelter against winter gales and storms, not sunny summer holidays. The only view was of another cottage opposite, now empty, and encased in scaffolding. Shabby, with peeling paintwork and neglected damp grey walls, it was obviously undergoing extensive renovation. I imagined workmen on the scaffolding all day, looking into my little sitting room. I tried to see myself living here, listening to constant noise, clatter and shouts from the small building site just yards across the narrow path, and I shuddered.

When I looked at Danny he was frowning, and shook his head. He’d picked up on my mood. He didn’t like it either. I squared up to Mr Mayhew. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think this one is right for me.’

He looked put out. ‘Oh, but you haven’t seen the upstairs yet, which is so pretty. I know it’s small, but you have to admit it’s quaint, and so atmospheric.’

‘No, my mind’s made up. You did say you had another place to show me?’

Nettled, the agent pushed open the door, let us out and locked up noisily behind him, with a bad-tempered twist of the wrist. He then led the way, pushing on through the Warren, while my heart sank. For the first time I began to see how ill-considered my impulsive decision had been. In my state of mind, there was every reason to expect the next property would be equally as depressing. If so, I would have to go back to Coombe and Adam with my tail between my legs, my dream of finding Joey in tatters, and my failure to jump the first hurdle of finding somewhere to live in Polperro proof of Adam’s conviction that I was the victim of a stubborn and impossible delusion.

After a few steps, Mayhew seemed to reconsider his petulance. He turned round and beamed at me. ‘Well, well, I’m sorry that cottage wasn’t to your liking, Mrs Gabriel. I can quite understand it, of course. Although many of my clients love it, finding it quite charming and picturesque, it
is
a little on the small side, and rather dark if you are hoping for a sunny sea view.’ He smiled to himself. ‘And I think, I do think, that I have the perfect place for you, my dear. I think you’ll love it.’

Danny and I glanced at each other, rolling our eyes. I was glad he was here. I’m not sure I could have coped with smarmy Mayhew on my own. By now, I may well have run back to the car park and called the whole thing off.

We walked briskly on down the path, past Sunny Corner, a cottage that vividly caught the sun.
I wish I could rent that one
, I thought wistfully, but alas Sunny Corner was spoken for. After a few more minutes, the view opened up and to our right the sea appeared, stunningly blue and silver. I stopped for a moment, my spirits suddenly soaring. Ahead of me, Mr Mayhew was talking again.