Maddie counted the waves as they crashed dramatically onto the rocks.
Every tenth wave sent up an enormous blast of white foam thrashing into
the granite backbone of the beach.
She always counted the wave-sets there and they were rarely the same.
Some days you’d wait five minutes for a huge titanic wave to batter the
rocks, throwing its spume over the slick grey boulders. But there was
always a pattern to it. A rhythm. One you could rely on.
The scenery on the Lizard Peninsula was breath-taking, and sometimes
it moved her to tears. You could easily imagine it as the very edge of the
world, with its jagged rocks and deep, treacherous gullies waiting for the
careless or the reckless to step too close to the cliff edge.
The drama of the Cornish seascape there in Gunwalloe might seem
violent to some, primal even. But for Maddie it was soothing, brought her
peace. It was also healing. Cleansing the sadness of loss, leaving just a
bittersweet memory of the very first time she had been there.
It seemed so long ago, when she’d first watched these same waves in
Church Cove. The date – 17 February 1941 – would be etched in her mind
forever.
Nowadays, she often came down to the cove to think. Or when her
flagging spirit needed prodding back into action.
And today? Why would the world need to cosset her today? She wasn’t
feeble. Had lived through far worse than this. They all had. She’d survived
a war, for God’s sake. And turning forty wasn’t such a big deal.
Things were good. No more rationing. No more fear. And a new decade:
the fifties. It all sounded so modern, contemporary.
Count your blessings, woman! Maddie thought to herself. You’re alive.
You’ve got a washing machine, a fridge, a vacuum cleaner, and one of those
fancy new hairdryers. No more taking hours drying your hair in front of the
fire. And the farmhouse has a new roof. No more buckets catching drips.
Turning forty shouldn’t be such a disaster. Well, should it?
It was the anti-climax, that’s all. After her birthday party yesterday, and
all the fuss. And now, dropping her brother into Helston to get his train.
He was leaving Cornwall, heading back to London and the bright lights.
Though she doubted Richard ever saw the bright lights. In bed by eight with
his cocoa and his bank reports. Still, it suited him. Not everybody could
afford to be a free spirit, he’d said. Funny how he always said stuff like that
around her.
Maddie picked up a pebble from the beach. The stone was round and
smooth. Years of patient sculpting by the waves of the Atlantic had turned it
into a work of art. Perfection. She was tempted to keep it. Take it home and
add it to her hoard of treasures.
Instead, Maddie threw the pebble as far as she could out into the ocean.
Then she turned her back on the foaming sea, walked past the ancient
church and trudged back uphill to the car. She always parked there, in the
same spot on the promontory. Like a kind of ritual. Beside the old barn,
ancient now, but still stubbornly clinging on; she went over and touched it.
Another ritual.
Memories washed over her. Memories of the two of them together.
Joined for the first time. She hoped life had been kind to him; it wasn’t
always. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the melancholy that had
attached itself to her. It wasn’t welcome. And it wasn’t like her. She wasn’t
normally sad.
It wasn’t just the birthday, of course. It was the thought of saying
goodbye to Gertie as well. Side by side for most of the war years. Working
together in the ATS. Laughing together in their billet. Crying together when
they’d lost pals. It was Gertie who’d organised the surprise birthday party
and now, she too, would be going home to London.
Maddie drove the ten miles back to the village of Pendurran in a kind of
bubble. Didn’t notice the lush fields, the grazing sheep, or the countryside
as it flashed past. She was on automatic pilot – not the best way to operate a
lethal weapon that could reach up to fifty miles an hour with a following
wind. And do untold damage to any sheep that crossed her path.
She pulled up next to the village shop. Milk, bread; that would hold her
till she could do a larger shop in town. And she’d check on the post. Save
old Mr Bingham trudging up to her farm.
‘Miss Brady. Alright, my ’ansum? Got your post here,’ said Rose
Trevelyan, and handed across two buff envelopes.
‘Thanks,’ said Maddie. More bills.
The woman dropped her voice and leaned in closer. ‘And – there were
some young fella asking for you just now,’ she said.
‘Really? Did he leave his name?’
‘Didn’t say,’ said Rose. ‘And I didn’t ask. Not my place. But he weren’t
local. Foreigner, I should say.’ Rose Trevelyan sniffed; a significant sniff,
disdainful. That, and the raised eyebrow, left no doubt as to how the
postmistress of Pendurran felt about foreigners.
Maddie tried not to smile. Rose considered most folk east of the Tamar
foreign, to be eyed with suspicion; she made some exceptions. Maddie
herself had finally been accepted as a ‘villager’ by the old woman, but it
had taken ten years – and several boxes of eggs from Maddie’s chickens
to grease the process.
‘So…?’
‘He asked directions to your place.’
‘Did he go up there?’ asked Maddie.
‘I don’t give out no private information like that,’ said Rose, and she
tapped the side of her nose in a knowing gesture.
‘So, he left?’
‘Looked like he was heading to the Old Forge. Might still be there,’ said
Rose.
‘Thanks,’ said Maddie. She pocketed the bills and left, forgetting to buy
her milk and bread. She was distracted and intrigued. Maybe she’d go to the
Forge Café, find out what the man wanted. Besides, a cup of tea would
warm her up, and Gertie wouldn’t mind if she didn’t get back straight off.
Her friend had been happily sitting in the farmhouse parlour reading her
new book. Feet up. Not often Gertrude Adams got to do that nowadays.
The Old Forge had lately been given a new slate roof, for the ancient
one had started to sag dangerously but, other than that, the old village
smithy was pretty much as it had been for decades now, at least on the
outside. Villagers were proud of its history, the fact that the forge had been
standing since 1805 and that they’d only stopped having a blacksmith
working there in 1939: the year war broke out.
Lots of things had changed that year.
The old building was sturdy. Looked like it could go on for years to
come. Battling the Cornish weather and the winds that seemed to blow in
from the Arctic at times. The locals were used to the harsh winter weather
and the mist that often clung to the low-lying village of Pendurran. The
building had been turned into a café, a popular destination for
holidaymakers looking for their authentic Cornish cream tea. And now, in
September, a time when most of the tourists had gone home, it was returned
to the locals – a cosy haven where friends could meet for a catch-up and a
decent lunch of homemade steak and kidney pie.
The only thing that marked it out as a smithy now was the heavy anvil
that stood outside the door. Black and shiny, repainted lovingly every year,
like the thick cob walls that were sparkling white in contrast. Colourful
winter pansies hung in baskets either side of the door. Happy little flowers,
Maddie always thought.
The old-fashioned bell over the door tinkled as she went in.
Rachel came over straight away, a friendly, polite young woman,
looking neat and competent in her smart black uniform and white frilly
apron and matching mobcap.
Maddie followed the young waitress to a table and smiled at her.
Rachel’s face opened in a wide beam – the girl had excellent teeth.
‘I love what you’ve done to your hair, Miss Madeline.’
‘You do?’ When she left the army, she’d allowed her hair to grow; it
was easier to manage, scrapped into a ponytail. She had no time for fussing
with her hair. But Gertie had badgered her into a new style, shoulder-length.
She hadn’t been convinced. Maybe a bit too young, she’d thought. Hark at
that. Thinking like a grumpy middle-aged woman already and she’d only
been forty for a day.
‘Dead glamorous. ’Zakly like Grace Kelly,’ said Rachel. ‘And Marilyn
Monroe sometimes wears it that way. All sleek and smooth, glossy like.
And turned under in a pageboy. Mind, you’re lucky.’
‘Oh?’
‘Having blonde hair.’
That’s what the hairdresser had told her as well. So maybe it was true.
But then she was taking your money, so that’s the sort of thing she would
say. Blonde hair and blue eyes, and tall and willowy. Score 100 on the cor
blimey scale. That had been Gertie’s verdict when they’d first met in 1941.
Blokes’ll be falling over theirselves to get to you, Gertie had assured her
when they’d become friends.
But somehow it hadn’t worked out that way. After Rudi, she hadn’t
been interested in taking on another man. She would always be thinking of
him.
‘Bring you some tea over, shall I, miss?’ asked Rachel.
‘That’d be lovely. And one of those toasted teacakes of yours,’ said
Maddie.
‘Right you are, miss. Quick as a wink,’ Rachel said and did a funny
little bob, like a curtsy.
Maddie looked around for the stranger. He wasn’t hard to spot, for there
were only two other people in the café. One was old Mr Bingham – ‘Alf’ to
his mates. He was proud of his job working for the Royal Mail. He always
emphasised the word ‘royal’ when describing his illustrious employers, and
he wore the uniform cap at a jaunty devil-may-care angle. Maddie
wondered if the ancient postman ever took it off.
The other customer looked uncomfortable in the quaint surroundings of
horse brasses and memorabilia of the old smithy. Looked vaguely out of
place in his suit and tie. The fedora hat placed on the table in front of him
reminded Maddie of something she’d seen in a gangster film.
The young man looked up, caught her watching him – and the hand that
held his teacup shook. His jaw slackened, and a strange look came over his
face.
Maddie couldn’t pin it down. Surprise? Recognition? A revelation of
some kind.
He stared at her. Like he knew her. And he tried a smile, but it didn’t
work. It slipped into a nervous grimace. Still he didn’t look away.
She didn’t know him, had never seen him before. And yet he insisted on
staring at her, his gaze intimate, disturbing. It made her feel on edge. And
the warm flush of embarrassment stung her cheeks.
Maddie didn’t wait for the tea. She searched her purse for change, left
the money for her bill and got ready to leave. But the young man walked to
her table and put a hand out towards her. He didn’t touch her.
‘Miss Brady?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Won’t you stay?’ he asked. ‘I’ve come a long way to meet you.’
Up close like this, she could see that he was very young. Sixteen?
Seventeen at the most. Still a gangling, skinny teenager with spots fighting
their hormonal battle on his face. A young man dressed up in old man’s
clothes.
He pointed to a seat at her table, a question in his eyes, the hat held
nervously in front of him, like a shield.
Maddie sat down again, and he took the seat opposite.
He will be quite handsome, she thought. When he matures. Once the
spots give up their hold. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I offer my apologies,’ the lad said, a little stiffly. ‘I would have written
to request a meeting, but I wasn’t sure I had the right place. I came from
Munich to find you.’
So, Rose Trevelyan was right: he had come from abroad. But he was no
foreigner. She could detect no accent, although there was something about
his stilted use of language that made her wonder. Like someone who has
become used to the strange syntax of a foreign tongue struggling to
remember his own.
Germany, he said. He’d come all the way from Munich to see her. But
why her? Maybe he’d heard about the centre? People came to her from all
over the country. But this country, never from abroad before. Nor was the
centre very large. But word got out, she supposed, when you were trying to
do something like she was. Something unusual, like a retreat.
It had all started in a small way the year after war ended. Just the land
and the ancient, decrepit farmhouse. Maddie had been idealistic, trying to
change the world, or at least a tiny part of it. And Gertie? Going along for
the ride, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do in the vacuum the
end of the war had left. The pair of them, living in a cold, leaky caravan
until they could get the old place brought back to life. A bit of self
sufficiency. The chickens, the goats, a couple of lazy pigs. Just your typical
smallholding.
But then, not really typical, was it? Maddie had encouraged any women
she’d found who’d been disturbed by the war and its consequences to come
and find an oasis of peace. Not only soldiers got shell-shocked. Or knew the
trauma left by war. Those women, who’d stayed behind, fighting their own
private battles on the home front, had had their fair share of anguish too.
Maddie wasn’t a doctor, or psychologist, or one of those fancy
therapists that were springing up all over the place now, but she’d given
them a sympathetic ear, someone to listen to their pain. Some had found
contentment looking after the chickens and the goats. Many women had
made their way to her door. She’d prided herself that several had left the
centre feeling stronger, more able to cope with the trauma left behind by
those years of war. Some had needed only weeks, a breathing space, to pull
their lives together. Others stayed for longer, sometimes leaving, then
returning. There was no rule. The centre was a life-raft.
And not only for the women, but for Maddie, too.
‘So, you’ve heard about the centre?’ she asked. It was rather flattering.
Or was that wrong of her? Too arrogant maybe. ‘The centre – is that why
you’ve come?’ asked Maddie.
‘Centre?’ he echoed, confused. ‘I don’t understand anything about a
centre,’ he said.
‘Well then, why? What do you want?’ Something about the way he was
staring at her was making her feel uncomfortable again.
‘I came for you. This is the only reason I came. To find you. A son
should know his mother. A mother should know her son.’ The lad smiled. A
sad, wistful smile.
‘What?! But that’s crazy!’ said Maddie. ‘You’re crazy. You’re not my
son. I don’t have any children. I’ve never had any children.’ Her voice was
strident, not like her. The denial adamant.
But anyone who truly knew Maddie Brady might have wondered at the
fleeting expression on her face. It could easily have been guilt.
‘And I suppose you’ll tell me you don’t know this man.’ The lad
reached into his pocket and took out a dog-eared photograph, held it up in
front of her. Close to her face.
The body was thin, the face in the picture emaciated, but still able to
produce a smile. He was standing outside a hut, maybe his own barracks,
she couldn’t remember, not after all this time. But those startling eyes that
had sparked when he laughed… his was a face she saw often in her dreams.
‘Rudi,’ she whispered.
And that’s when Madeline Brady passed out
