In the Blood (11 page)

The real reason she was having it knocked through was because Gabriel had wanted it.
 
Gabriel would have taken that wall down the day they moved in, but there was enough to think about back then, when they had owned and operated the ferry service themselves.
 
Now Amy had Martin to run things, and a string of hired assistants that seemed to change with the tide.

The house shook again and Amy winced.
 
Beyond the wall to the left of the fireplace, she could hear the floorboards being worked on.
 
The carpet was coming up and the boards beneath were to be repaired and treated.
 
The constant scraping was getting to her now more than the banging and she wished she’d told the decorators to take the day off.
 
She could deal with it better on any other day, but not today.
 
She decided she had to get out of the house; take a walk into the village.

Then it suddenly fell quiet.
 
A moment later, voices began to echo in the dining room and there was a knock at the sitting room door.

“Mrs Fallon?”

Amy sat up as the door opened and a heavily bearded man entered wearing bright yellow overalls emblazoned with the decorating company’s name:
Harpington.
 
He looked surprised, with just an edge of excitement about him.
 
“You’d better take a look at this.”

In the dining room, in an alcove to the right of a smaller inglenook fireplace, a man dressed in the same familiar work overalls was on his knees with a torch.
 
He was looking down into a dark space where a floor to ceiling cupboard had once been.
 
Beside him was a block of what appeared to be floor boards, only they were connected to each other with batons beneath them, holding them together like a gate or door that was about two feet wide, by three feet long.
 
It was barely smaller than the recess.

Amy went closer.
 
Her eyes followed the torchlight down through the floorboards until she could just make out the start of a few dusty steps, each stone worn to a crescent through use.

Within fifteen minutes of descending into what her torchlight had revealed to be a small damp room with a claustrophobically low ceiling, Amy had dismissed the workmen, tied her shirt in a knot about her waist and was heading along the summer-baked lane towards Helford Village.
 
Tucked beneath her arm, wrapped in a blue-and-white gingham tea-towel, she carried the cause of her excitement.

It’s a secret...
 
She couldn’t get those words out of her head.
 
That’s what Gabriel said the night before he disappeared.
 
Now she had convinced herself that Gabriel had found those hidden steps and that what she now carried under her arm was in some way connected with his disappearance.
 
Amy had found Gabriel’s secret - she was sure of it - and her discovery charged her with renewed determination as she made her way towards the bridge at the top of the creek, knowing just who to see about it.

Chapter Thirteen

T
o be considered truly Cornish is to be able to trace your ancestry back to when the Cornish language, or
Kernewek,
was still the primary tongue; though some maintain that it is enough to have three generations buried in Cornish soil.
 
Fail to meet either criterion and you are an
incomer,
and whether or not you belong is a matter of how much of your past life you are prepared to sacrifice to Cornwall’s embrace.
 
You could live in Cornwall all your life, yet still be regarded as little more than a tourist by the Cornish people.
 
To belong in Cornwall is to become a part of it - or you are no part at all.

Tomas Laity was a true Cornishman.

Amy could see his unmistakable form, even from the short wooden bridge as she crossed the creek at the top of Helford Village.
 
The tide was out and this far up the creek bed was caked in wet river mud, giving the area by the bridge a particular nose at low water.
 
She stepped across and made her way down the narrow lane beside the inlet, where small dinghies and launches rested at a tilt all the way to the river.
 
Patriotic bunting lined the lane, like the whole village was stuck in the past, still celebrating a royal jubilee.
 
Behind her, beyond the bridge and the few white-washed, cob walled cottages with their shiny slate tiled roofs, a tall woodland canopy rose out of the low valley.

Laity was unmistakable to Amy because she’d never seen him look any different.
 
She was still more than a hundred metres away and hadn’t yet passed the post office and village stores, but she could clearly see his white t-shirt and wondered what caption it would carry today.
 
A seasoned, white half-apron reached most of the way down his beige combat trousers, which were cut-off below the knee, dangling rough threads during the day, then turned up a few pleats for the evening.
 
His scuffed walking boots were as much a part of him as Cornwall itself.

Laity kept his light-grey hair trimmed short, shaved down to a no.2 on the clipper scale because finally, after forty-eight years, it was starting to go.
 
His over-active lifestyle and the exuberant outlook of a Cornish Piskie kept him youthful though, if a little gangly-looking.
 
He was on the cobbled patio area outside his shop, standing at one of the sun-greyed bench tables, laughing to himself as he often did for reasons only he knew as he collected the remains of an afternoon tea of fresh baked fruit scones, Rhodda’s crusty clotted cream and an unusual summer-berry jam that his mother made.

Tomas Laity had lived his whole life on the Lizard Peninsula, an area known locally as
the Lizard,
which is almost cut off from mainland Cornwall by the Helford River.
 
Following in the family tradition, his shop was appropriately known as Laity’s - a Cornish word that literally means
milk house.
 
Inside, black-and-white and sepia photographs decorated the walls, giving customers a peek into the family’s past and leaving no doubt that the Laity dairy tradition had been upheld through the centuries - though the business had changed considerably since those early days, particularly during Tomas Laity’s ownership.
 
The dairy had evolved more into a supplier of other people’s dairy produce, and the sign on the front wall of the long and low white-washed building now read
Laity’s Deli,
rather than
Laity’s Dairy.

He had to stoop as he went back into the shop carrying an overburdened tray; the doorway was unsuitable for his six foot, three inch frame, and the ceiling inside was little better, forcing an unnatural kink to develop in his neck that he never thought to straighten when he was outside.
 
He can’t have noticed Amy arrive with her gingham parcel.

“I’ll just be a mo, Mrs Peterson,” Laity called to the elderly lady at the till waiting to pay for a packet of Rich Tea biscuits and a half-loaf of bread - one of his regulars.

Mrs Peterson looked around in time to read the words on the front of Laity’s t-shirt: ‘Pinta korev marpleg’ -
Pint of beer please.
 
Mrs Peterson knew enough old Cornish to understand it and the pint of frothing beer on the back was a fair clue to anyone who didn’t.
 
The frown on her face was as fixed as ever as she watched Laity’s old walking boots whisk him past the refrigerated counter and through into the kitchen.

Usually, Laity had a couple of local school-leavers or his old mum to help him out.
 
This afternoon, however, he was working alone.
 
There was a clatter from the kitchen.
 
Then he came into the shop again, still laughing at unexpected moments, perhaps at the madness that was his everyday life.
 
If anyone asked him why he always seemed so happy or why he was always laughing, he’d laugh there and then and invite them to look at some part of the scenery, saying, “Wouldn’t you if you had to live here and wake up to this
gorgeous
place every morning.”
 
Unfortunately, none of his character was rubbing off on Mrs Peterson, who paid Laity in her usual brusque manner, complained about the price and was still shaking her head as she left.

“See you again tomorrow, Mrs Peterson,” Laity called with a chuckle.
 
Another family of four were seating themselves outside.
 
Someone else was waiting for cheese and there were two more customers reading the labels from an assortment of condiment jars on a table beside the olive counter.

He closed the till with a metallic thump.
 
“Have you tried the chilli jam?” he said, smacking his lips.
 
“Gorgeous with a nice bit of monkfish or seared tuna.”

Two girls in their mid twenties looked up and smiled. Then Laity was behind the refrigerated counter grinning at the cheese like he was anticipating a quick nibble.
 
“What can I get for you,” he said to the man waiting on the other side.
 
The man was glowing, like he’d had too much sun, and before he could answer Laity’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

Amy was standing in the doorway.

“Hel-lo,” Laity called over the cheese customer’s shoulder.

The man with the sunburn turned to see who was there, smiling along with Laity.

“It’s madness!”
 
Laity said, breaking into a short, chirpy laugh.
 
He turned his attention back to the glowing man.
 
“So what will it be?”

Amy came further into the shop.
 
“Hi Tom.
 
Sorry,” she added to the man waiting to order his cheese.
 
Then to Laity, she said, “Maybe I’d better come back?”

“No, it’s okay,” Laity said.
 
“It won’t get any quieter today.
 
Have a seat and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.
 
Or coffee?
 
Nice cafetiere?”
 
He gave her a big grin and his eyes twinkled.
 

For the first time all day, Amy smiled too; Tom Laity was that infectious.
 
She considered the choice briefly then said, “Coffee sounds great.
 
Thanks.”
 
She didn’t usually drink coffee, but Laity managed to offer it in a way that made it seem irresistibly special.

 
She apologised again to the man waiting to order his cheese and went back outside and sat at one of the bench tables, setting her gingham parcel gently down.
 
The tables were laid out in a line with a generous space between them, one end butting against a walled rockery burgeoning with red and pink fuchsias.
 
In the centre, a Cornish palm shot up like a firework in mid burst.

Amy drew a long breath and followed a trace of smoked mackerel to a home-made smoke box that Laity had set going along the wall.
 
It reminded her of the times Laity had taken her and Gabriel out fishing; a regular event at one time.
 
Something else that now belonged to her past life.
 
Her gaze drifted with the smoke, across the narrow creek, absently following a scattering of white houses with their multi-tiered gardens and private moorings.
 
She wondered what Tom would make of her find; what advice he would give.
 
She knew he would have some answers, or at least he would know someone who did.

Amy and Laity had become good friends over the past few years, though their approach to the friendship was a casual one, picking up wherever they left off regardless of how long it had been since they last saw each other.
 
That had been enough for Amy - all she had to offer just now.
 
And she had much to thank him for.
 
His cheery demeanour had gone a long way towards helping her through those early months after Gabriel had been declared
missing, presumed drowned.
 
Then through the shock of learning that it would be seven years before Gabriel could be pronounced legally dead; seven years before the law would allow her closure.

But Amy was in no hurry.
 
If the law allowed for the fact that Gabriel could still be alive then it was a possibility she desperately embraced.
 
And yet it all seemed like a dream from which she knew one day she would wake only to find that it was no dream at all.
 
Then the pending verdict of
death by misadventure
would be passed and she would have to face it all over again.
 
To Amy, it seemed so utterly inadequate an end to the story of Gabriel’s life.

When Laity came back out from his shop, he was carrying the promised cafetiere, which he plonked down on Amy’s table with a wink.
 
“There you go,” he said.
 
“Be back shortly.”
 
Then he marched away to the family of four to take their order, returning several minutes later carrying two trays, heavy with the makings of yet another cream tea.