Believing: a Sapphic mini-story (Part 1)

I By the time Alison reached the village, the rain was coming down so heavily that the windscreen wipers could barely cope. She slowed for the zig-zagging streets, following the satnav towards the further end of Cape Cornwall. Beyond the fields, the sea was a greyed-out ribbon beneath a low bank of cloud. She had forgotten how narrow the roads were. As a child, she'd travelled along them in the back of her father's Rover, wedged between a pile of beach towels and a wicker basket, with her mother passing back sandwiches that had turned warm in the car. They had gone there almost every summer, staying in one of the little cottages near the coast. Even when it rained, as it often did, she had loved it. That was more than twenty-five years ago. She hadn't been back since. She had selected Cape Cornwall almost on impulse. When the letting agent sent through the details, the cottage had looked so comfortably familiar that she booked it straight away without considering anything else. Her phone lay on the passenger seat. At a junction she picked it up and checked the screen. Nothing. She put it down again. “You're taking a month's leave, Alison. Not a long weekend. A month.” Her managing partner had been unusually firm. He had called her into his office after she'd made a mistake in a document that, six months earlier, she would have spotted immediately. Nothing disastrous, but sufficiently unlike her to prompt a conversation she found humiliating. “You're exhausted,” he said. “And you're starting to make mistakes. I don't want you back until you've had a proper rest.” She had protested, naturally. There were transactions in progress, clients who expected her personal attention, junior colleagues who relied on her. He listened patiently before informing her that he'd already arranged for someone else to take over her casework. She had felt dismissed. Worse, she felt... dispensable. Now, just a few days later, she was driving through a Cornish thunderstorm with four weeks stretching ahead of her and no real idea what to do with them. The satnav directed her down a winding lane between high, uncut hedgerows. At the bottom stood a small group of cottages, their slate roofs shining in the downpour. It was where she had stayed during her childhood, she was now sure of it. Trevellan Cottage was the last in the row, set a little apart from its neighbours with a gravelled parking space nearby. Alison pulled into it and switched off the engine. It was only twenty past two. Check-in wasn't until four, but she couldn't face another hour and a half in the car. A light was burning in the cottage window, and a small green hatchback stood beside the hedge. She climbed out, opened the boot and wrestled her two suitcases onto the gravel. Their little wheels were almost useless, bumping over the uneven ground, and by the time she had dragged them to the front door, her coat was soaked and rain was running down her face. The door stood recessed within a shallow stone entrance. She tried the handle and, finding it open, quickly stepped inside and found herself in a cramped lobby. “Hello?” A noise came from somewhere inside the cottage, followed by a woman's voice. “Just a moment.” A woman appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. She was in her early fifties, Alison guessed, with fair hair generously threaded with grey and gathered untidily at the back of her head. She wore dark trousers and a faded blue shirt. There was a faint flush across her cheeks, as though she had been working hard. The woman greeted her with a look of surprise, and Alison tried to break the ice with a smile. “I'm Alison. Alison Grant. I'm due to be staying here.” The woman glanced at her watch. “You're early. I haven't quite finished.” “Yes, I'm sorry. I got here much quicker than I expected.” so many of them. Alison looked down at the open book on her lap. She had twenty-eight days here. Twenty-eight days without meetings, deadlines or anyone expecting an answer. She turned the page. A minute later, she turned it back. She hadn't taken in a word. II By Monday morning, Alison had begun to understand why her father had always insisted on bringing a pack of cards to Cornwall. The rain continued for most of Saturday. On Sunday she had managed a walk along the coastal path, but the wind was been so fierce she had returned after half an hour, her eyes watering and her ears aching with cold. She had finished her novel, started another and watched two films on television. She'd also checked her work emails approximately thirty times, despite knowing there would be nothing there. The absence of messages was beginning to feel personal. On Monday the weather improved. A pale sun appeared between the clouds, and by ten o'clock Alison had decided she could bear the cottage no longer. She drove into the village and parked near the square. She could dimly remember the church and the pub opposite, but little else. A minimart now stood on the far side of the square, and around its centre stood a small row of shops — a butcher's, a newsagent's, a bakery and a delicatessen. She wandered past the shop windows, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile the place with her childhood memories. At the beginning of a narrow lane leading off the square, she came upon a café. Its windows were misted around the edges, and through the glass she could see several occupied tables. She went inside. The place was warm and smelled of coffee and fried breakfast. Two elderly men sat near the counter, discussing something in low, earnest voices, while a couple in walking boots studied a map beside the window. Behind the counter stood Annie. She was laughing at something one of the men had said, her face unexpectedly animated. She wore a dark apron over a pale green jumper, her fair hair loosely pinned up. She noticed Alison and smiled. “Well, hello. Survived the weekend, then?” “Just about.” Annie laughed. “Take a seat. I'll bring you a menu.” Alison chose a small table beside the window. A moment later Annie appeared with a laminated menu, which she placed in front of her. “Can I get you a drink?” “A flat white, please.” Annie nodded and returned to the counter. Alison studied the menu. There were sandwiches, homemade soups, all-day breakfasts and a selection of toasted teacakes. Her eye fell on the saffron cake. She remembered her father buying a slab of it during their childhood holidays, the yellow crumb studded with currants. When Annie returned with her coffee, Alison ordered a toasted slice. “With butter?” “Definitely.” Annie smiled and went to fetch it. Alison opened the newspaper she'd bought in the square, but found herself listening instead to the conversations around her. It was an odd sensation, sitting among people whose lives had nothing whatsoever in common with hers. Nobody here knew what she did for a living. Nobody wanted her opinion on a contract or expected her to solve a problem or a dispute. She ought to have found it liberating. Instead, she felt rather like a visitor to a party where everyone else knew the host. The saffron cake arrived warmed, with a generous curl of butter melting across its surface. Alison took a bite and was surprised by the strength of the memory it brought back: her father cutting two slices and her mother's voice telling them not to spoil their supper. She ate slowly, watching the people in the square. After a while the café began to empty. The walkers left, followed by the elderly men, who took several minutes to finish their conversation at the door. Annie cleared the tables and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. Alison was considering another coffee when she noticed a painting on the wall opposite. It showed a stretch of coastline in late afternoon, the headland dark against a pale sky. There was no dramatic sunset, no picturesque fishing boat. Just a narrow path winding through rough grass towards the sea, with the light catching the tops of the dry stone walls. She recognised the style before she saw the signature. Annie's. There were three other paintings nearby, all similarly styled. One showed a cluster of houses above a harbour; another, an empty beach beneath a grey winter sky. Small handwritten cards gave their titles and prices. Alison got up to look more closely. “You found my little exhibition.” Annie had emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of clean cups. “I thought they were yours.” Alison returned her attention to the coastal path. “Where's this one?” “Just along the coast. A favourite haunt of mine.” They looked at the painting together. Alison liked the way the path disappeared beyond a rise in the ground, leaving the viewer to imagine what lay ahead. There was something quietly assured about it. “I'd like to buy it,” she said. Annie turned towards her. “Really?” “Yes. Very much.” For a moment Annie seemed uncertain what to say. “Well, I'm flattered. And of course you can.” She lifted the painting from its hook and carried it to the counter, where she began wrapping it in brown paper. Alison watched her fold the corners neatly and secure them with tape. She handed Alison the parcel. “There you are.” “It will look lovely in my apartment.” “Oh? And where's that?” “London.” Annie gave a small nod. “Long way from here.” “It feels like it.” Alison paid for the painting and gathered up her newspaper. “And the saffron cake was wonderful.” “I'll tell Margaret. She makes it.” “Then give her my compliments.” “I shall.” Annie smiled and returned to the counter. Outside, the sun had disappeared behind a bank of cloud, but the rain was holding off. Alison carried the painting carefully to her car and laid it on the back seat. It occurred to her that, though she never had to worry much about what things cost, those purchases never really gave her pleasure. But buying Annie's painting felt different. It meant something she couldn't quite put her finger on... a connection to a place and a person, perhaps. She shook her head to dislodge the thought, and started the engine. Back at the cottage, she unwrapped the painting and propped it against the mantelpiece, beside Annie's harbour scene. She stood considering them for a moment, then went into the kitchen to make herself some lunch. Her phone was lying on the table. She picked it up, checked the screen and found nothing. For once, she put it down without opening her inbox. She wondered whether Annie would be working at the café tomorrow. Then she took the bread from the cupboard and began making a sandwich, feeling suddenly a whole lot lighter.