Coming Home: An uplifting feel good novel with family secrets at its heart. Fern Britton

you want to do with your life?’

      ‘Right now I’d like a pint and some fish and chips. That was how I had planned tonight.’

      ‘Sorry I messed it up,’ she said shyly.

      ‘I forgive you.’ He was teasing again. ‘Shall we start afresh?’

      She bit her lip but managed a smile. ‘Yes please.’

      ‘Good.’ He turned the engine on and reversed the car. ‘We’ll go over to Pendruggan village. There’s a great pub there called the Dolphin. Proper beer, good food and quiet. Fancy it?’

      From then on the evening went smoothly. Bill was an easy person to be around and Adela made him laugh with her stories of her flatmates and her tutors, two of whom were Graham Sutherland and Lucien Freud. He told her about his work with the pottery and the great Bernard Leach who was teaching him. ‘He’s a genius, Adela. I’d like you to come down and meet him.’

      ‘That would be lovely.’

      ‘Good. By the way, can you play darts? The board has just come free.’

      She surprised him with her skill at darts and took a game off him straight away.

      ‘Have you been having lessons?’

      ‘Beginner’s luck,’ she laughed. ‘Or maybe I’ve spent the last year in London learning to play in our local?’

      ‘Right, if that’s the case,’ he picked up his darts, ‘no more Mr Nice Guy.’

      The drive back to the house was very different to either of the previous drives that evening. Now they were comfortable together, the small silences between them serene and pleasant.

      At the front door, she thanked him.

      ‘Will you be up at the harvest tomorrow?’ he asked.

      ‘It’s my job to bring you all your snack, isn’t it?’

      ‘Ah yes. That’ll be the reason you come up.’

      ‘Nothing else.’ She chewed her lip, hoping and fearing that he might kiss her. She tipped her head up to his and in a low voice said, ‘So. See you tomorrow?’

      She half-closed her eyes and waited. He hesitated, then stepped off the front step and walked backwards towards his car.

      ‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ He opened the driver’s door and bent to get in. She watched the way he folded his long legs into the seat and sat down. Being so tall, his head touched the roof. As he started the engine and the car began to pull away he leant out of the window and said, ‘Did I mention how lovely you look in that dress?’

      She stood for a long time, watching his taillights grow smaller until they disappeared from sight.

       4

      

       Pendruggan, 2018

      Once Ella had promised not to meet their mother, Henry, Ella and Kit had a reasonably happy weekend. After a gin-fuelled sleep on the first night, Henry had quite a hangover. He lay in bed, hoping the throbbing of his head would subside enough to allow him to get up and go to the bathroom. There was a knock at his door. It was Ella carrying a mug and a foil pack of pills. She pushed the door open with her foot. ‘Are you feeling as bad as Kit?’

      ‘Worse,’ he groaned.

      ‘Gin head. Big time.’ Henry was aware of his sister approaching the bed and placing the mug and tablets on the table next to him. ‘There’s coffee and paracetamol.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass.

      ‘Full Cornish breakfast will fix you. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

      After a few minutes he managed to raise himself from the pillow and attempt the coffee. It was good. Hot and very strong. He threw the tablets into his mouth and washed them down.

      There was another knock at the door. It was Kit, bleary-eyed and wearing a scruffy, short, towelling dressing gown and stubble. ‘Showed the gin who’s boss, didn’t we?’ he said, sitting on the edge of Henry’s bed, his head in his hands.

      ‘How much did we have?’ murmured Henry.

      ‘I remember opening a new bottle and then throwing it away once it was empty.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Boys,’ Ella called up the stairs, ‘breakfast is served.’

      A young man’s powers of recuperation are not to be underestimated, and with the coffee and painkillers, plus Ella’s enormous fry-up, by lunchtime they were almost functioning human beings once more.

      They were sitting in the garden of Marguerite Cottage, warming themselves like cats in the drowsy sunshine. ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’ Ella drawled from her deckchair. ‘Anyone fancy lunch out?’

      ‘Love some,’ said Kit reaching for her hand. ‘Only you had better drive as I think Henry and I would never pass a breath test.’

      ‘Pizza is what you need.’ Ella gathered herself and got out of the deckchair as best she could. ‘You need carbs, rehydration and some fresh air. We’ll get all that in Trevay.’

      ‘The old place looks very gentrified,’ Henry remarked as he watched the little town of his childhood slide past his backseat window.

      ‘Would you like to see what they’ve done to Granny’s house?’ Ella asked over her shoulder.

      ‘Sure.’

      Ella pulled the car up on the corner of their old road and the three of them got out and walked up the short but steep lane to White Water. Henry stuck his head over the garden wall. ‘They’ve kept Poppa’s palm trees going,’ he said.

      ‘I know. I stayed here for a few weeks in the summer, remember? Our old courtyard for the sandpit and bikes has gone, though. They’ve put in a conservatory with a pond and a fountain.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ said Henry,’ I can just about see. There are a couple of people having a coffee in there.’

      ‘They’ll be the B & B guests.’

      ‘Double glazing and plantation shutters. Granny would think that very bourgeois,’ Henry chuckled.

      ‘Do you think so?’ asked Ella, standing on tiptoes to get a view. ‘I think she’d approve.’

      Henry stepped back and rubbed the grit of the granite wall from his hands. ‘Memories, eh?’

      ‘Yep,’ said Ella.

      ‘I like the big window in the attic,’ said Kit. ‘Is that where your grandmother had her studio?’

      Ella poked him in the ribs. ‘You painters. All the same. Where’s the best light? Can I get a tall canvas in there? Is there enough space for my paints?’

      ‘So it was her studio?’ asked Kit, fending off any more pokes by catching Ella’s wrists.

      ‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘Poppa had his space downstairs for his wheel and stuff, and the kiln was in the garden. That’ll be long gone now.’

      ‘Yeah, it is,’ said Ella. ‘Do you remember the excitement when we were allowed to open it up after a firing and find our pots?’

      ‘Rubbish every one of them. But Poppa always told us they were great.’ Henry smiled then rubbed his temples.

      ‘I think