Another Life: Escape to Cornwall with this gripping, emotional, page-turning read. Sara MacDonald
again of the small simple pleasures that sustain, that never change and count as happiness.
‘Actually, it’s Gabrielle, not Gabriella,’ Gabby said, as they sat outside on a wooden bench drinking coffee and eating biscuits.
‘I know,’ Mark said. ‘I know it is. But I like the sound of Gabriella, it rolls off my tongue. Gabrielle, Gabriella – the name reminds me of Pre-Raphaelites floating down rivers in gossamer dresses.’
‘Like the Lady of Shallot!’
‘Yep. That’s it!’ They smiled at one another.
‘This is heaven,’ Mark said. ‘Have we time to explore the whole island?’
‘Tresco isn’t very big and we have the rest of the day.’ Gabby was amused.
‘Maybe we could gather a picnic together. Is there a shop?’
‘There’s one shop on the other side of the island. It isn’t exactly a supermarket and there is a pub right next door to it if you felt like a drink or somewhere to have lunch.’
‘I thought it might be fun to walk, if you’re happy to, then we can stop when we feel like it. I’d like to leave time to have a last look at Valhalla before we catch the helicopter back.’
‘We’ll do that, then.’
They circled the walls of the castle and walked along the tree-lined road past fields, birdwatchers’ huts and timeshare cottages to the other end of the island. In the shop they bought filled rolls, crisps, a bottle of wine, chocolate and two apples. Mark stowed them away in his small backpack. They turned and walked along the coastal path for a while and then stopped at a small white sandy beach. Gabby kicked her sandals off; the sand was already warm under her feet, the sea a shade of violet.
Mark Hannah removed his socks and shoes and rolled his trousers up and they walked along the edge of the sea. He asked her about the other islands: St Agnes, St Martin’s, Bryher and St Mary’s. Gabby explained that each island was entirely different and unique in its own way.
‘Each summer all the islands become full to bursting. Accommodation is at a premium, even the campsite on St Agnes gets overbooked. People book a year in advance and then boat-hop between the islands. There are also trips out to visit the seal colonies, the pre-historic sites and to Samson, which is unpopulated now.’
Mark sighed. ‘How I wish I’d booked a week on one of the islands before the hotel in Truro instead of visiting a colleague’s family.’
‘Maybe you’ll have another opportunity?’
‘Not this trip. I have to get back to London to see my publisher, but I’m stopping off in Exeter and hiring a car to do a couple of days’ research and to visit an old aunt. I wouldn’t have minded wasting a week in St Mawes if it had been fun, but the couple I stayed with kept having these God-awful dinner parties and I was trundled out like a decaying trophy.’
Gabby laughed, although she felt sympathetic. ‘It’s because people down here love having anyone of note to show off to their friends. It’s a good thing you weren’t visiting at Christmas, you’d have been swallowed whole.’
They stood for a moment watching the sea. In the distance a small boat packed with holidaymakers chugged its way past to the small jetty behind them. The water at their feet was crystal clear and tiny fish darted between their legs.
‘Whenever I’ve come before it’s been on The Scillonian. It only takes a couple of hours, but it always seems more exciting somehow than the helicopter. You can pretend on a short sea voyage that you are making a journey to a foreign place. You can’t do that in a twenty-minute helicopter ride.’
‘Do you often come over here?’ Mark asked.
‘Not really, considering we’re so near. We used to come every few years when my son was small. Getting in and out of boats and running wild and exploring are a child’s idea of heaven.’
Mark smiled. ‘And a grown man’s.’
They turned and walked inland through the salt marshes. Gabby’s memories were of walking with Josh here while Charlie fished or chatted to the locals. Charlie always met someone he knew, wherever they went. They would talk bulbs and farming, the weather and tourists. Charlie, who grew bored and restless after about two days away from the farm, relaxed here because he knew that in any crisis he could be on the helicopter and home within a few hours. But holidays had often been with Nell as they could never all leave the farm together.
If this was your first trip to the Scilly Islands you would be awed at the vivid colour of the sea and marvel at the row upon row of varying yellow daffodils in spring, sloping downwards from tiny fields rimmed with stone walls. The heat and the silence, even in summer, would press down on you. If you closed your eyes you could almost believe you were on a Greek island.
Gabby thought suddenly of home. The milking would have finished; Nell would be feeding the bantams. Charlie would be doing his rounds, checking up on everyone. And here she was, someone else, island-walking on a clear, cloudless blue day with a man she did not know.
Moorhens shot out of the undergrowth and a heron stood on one foot perfectly still. Mark and Gabby walked on in companionable silence.
Mark was considering how his life had changed since he found Lady Isabella. What began as an interest became a quest. Obsession, Veronique had said. While he was away, the house would become even more packed with his daughters and their families. Veronique would be standing at the stove cooking dinner. Or, he was a bit hazy about the time difference, she would be sitting at the large Shaker table chatting to one of the girls, keeping half an eye on any grandchildren playing at her feet. She would be utterly content to be surrounded by chaos, for that chaos was her family and her whole life.
Mark could no longer remember when they had last had an evening meal alone together. He could no longer remember what his wife looked like when he first met her at university, but he never forgot how clever she had been and how shockingly eager, almost thankful she had seemed, to submerge that marvellous intellect into babies and domesticity.
Would anyone, passing them on the path as he walked with this small dark woman who was not much older than his eldest daughter, think he was her father? It was the last thing he felt. Away from his family, that ballooned alarmingly each year as if it was a contest, how different, how … free he felt. As if he was another man altogether.
They walked until they reached the small harbour, with fishing boats pulled up onto the foreshore. There was a gallery, the pub, and beyond, tucked away in the trees, lay the island hotel.
Mark went off to explore Cromwell’s castellated fortresses rising from the water while Gabby sat on the wall, lifting her face to the sun and listening to children playing around the boats. Sound and smell; sun-coloured floaters on her closed lids rose and fell soporifically. The heat warmed her already-brown legs and arms. All life faded to this small second on the wall.
She slowly opened her eyes and got up and walked into the gallery. Most of the artists were local. Gabby was immediately drawn to two of Elan’s paintings, a watercolour and a gouache, neither of which she had seen before. She was standing studying them when Mark joined her.
They both stood looking at the two small paintings for a long time. Elan could capture a mood so exactly that it made your skin prickle. The sheer power and range of his emotions transformed his work. The moral sensibility behind a deft and seemingly simple scene was as real and true as the fierce weather or the muted colours of the start of another day.
Sunrise over Cove, a watercolour, had a haunting quality. Cottage before a Storm was full of a strange and intense yearning. Both paintings seemed to capture the artist’s longing for another human being to share in the sparse and beautiful landscape he painted.
Gabby