Winter Wishes (11 page)

Deep in thought, Tara took the steepest path out of the village and over the cliffs. Her breathing came in sharp gasps and before long she was unwinding her scarf and pulling off her coat. The sea glittered and boiled around needle-sharp rocks, dizzyingly far below now as the path climbed higher and the land fell away to her left. Tara paused for a moment to gather her energy before going further. Walking the cliffs required more physical effort than all the treadmills and steppers in Ant’s gym put together, and by the time she turned away from the coast and began following a merry stream into the woods, her lungs were burning.

But at least she wasn’t thinking anymore – and that had to be a good thing.

Slowing her pace so that she could recover her breath, Tara continued alongside the stream for a mile or so until the trees opened out into a clearing. The branches high above were knitted together less densely now, allowing the light to filter through their vibrant green canopy. The stream had widened out too, tickling the tree roots that had crept closer over time to dip themselves into the water. Gradually it flowed into a deep pool around a weathered Celtic cross. Nearby, little scraps of fabric flickered in the breeze and a string of bells draped over a lilac bush chimed softly.

“St Wenn’s Well!” Tara said, in surprise. She hadn’t expected to find herself here. Goodness, she’d walked miles if she’d reached this isolated spot. Wasn’t there supposed to be a myth about making wishes here? Something to do with wishing for true love?

She laughed out loud. She could wish all she liked for that. Tara was starting to wonder whether true love even existed. Once upon a time she’d thought so, but life, and her own stupidity, had soon put paid to that belief. Danny, Ant and… well, never mind him, they’d all done their bit to prove to Tara that true love was right up there with the tooth fairy and Santa.

Sunlight dappled the dank woodland floor, turning the chuckling stream to diamonds and making the shadows dance. A wood pigeon’s trembling call floated down from high above her head and the bells tinkled again as the breeze toyed with them. Tara stopped and crouched down at the water’s edge. It was certainly a pretty spot and, judging by the numerous rags and scraps tied to the branches, enough people still believed in the power of St Wenn to make the long hike up over the cliffs and through the woodland. The pagan past was never far away in Cornwall, she remembered. People still dressed up as green men or had fun morris dancing, didn’t they, so why would making a wish in a sacred stream be any different?

Tara wasn’t quite sure why, but she found herself leaning over the stream and trailing her fingers through the cold water.

“OK then, St Wenn,” she said aloud, “if you can bring me true love then I’d be very grateful. It might be a bit of a big ask though, even for a saint, but any help I can get would be nice. I haven’t done so well by myself.”

It was foolish of her, of course, to be talking to thin air like this. Feeling self-conscious, she pulled her hand out of the stream. She was about to retreat from the water’s edge when a squawking pheasant burst from the dense undergrowth, its wings flapping wildly and its eyes bulging as it flashed through the clearing. And no wonder: a chocolate Labrador was in hot pursuit. The abrupt noise came as a shock after the stillness. Tara shrieked with surprise, her heart hammering in her chest. She scrambled backwards, almost losing her footing, clutching at a sapling to steady herself and catch her breath.

“Watson! Watson! Jesus Christ, you stupid hound! Come here! Now!”

A man came charging through the trees, his waxed jacket billowing behind him like a superhero’s cape and with his sandy hair standing on end. He seemed every bit as surprised and flustered as the pheasant. His wire-framed glasses were slipping down his nose and he paused for a minute with his hands on his knees to gulp some air. His face was much the same colour as his cherry-red scarf; from the look of him, he’d been pursuing his errant dog for quite some time.

“You made me jump out of my skin!” Tara exclaimed.

The man stood, then grimaced and doubled up again, clutching his side. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Tara hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. Her own heart rate was only just returning to somewhere almost normal, and although she’d done some basic first-aid training when she’d worked at the Polwenna Bay Hotel she was pretty rusty now. Giving a total stranger the kiss of life wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when she’d wished for true love just a moment ago.

She stepped forward and took his arm. “Are you all right?”

He was panting. “I am, but Watson won’t be when I catch up with him! Bloody dog, taking off on the cliff path like that. I haven’t run this far since school.”

That was obvious from the state of him, Tara thought privately. He was tall and lean but it was a cold day and being wrapped up in all those layers would have made running just a few feet hard work, let alone the mile or so from the coastal path.

“Do you need to sit down?” she asked.

The man straightened up. “What I do need to do is join the village gym and take my own advice about diet and exercise. I’m a doctor,” he explained, when Tara looked puzzled. He held out his hand. “Richard Penwarren. My mother’s Kursa, the hairdresser.”

Tara didn’t know much about Richard, who must have arrived just a month or two before she’d moved to Plymouth, but his mother’s skill with the scissors was notorious. Most villagers had suffered a disastrous scalping by her at some stage. Luckily the new doctor, with his long floppy fringe the same colour as the wet sand of the bay, appeared to have escaped his mother’s hairdressing. Richard pushed his hair out of his grey eyes and smiled down at Tara expectantly.

“Oh, sorry!” Suddenly aware that she’d been staring at him while lost in thought, Tara took his hand and shook it. “I’m Tara. Tara Tremaine.”

Richard’s eyes widened behind his glasses. So he’d heard of her, then. No doubt the usual tales of the heartless bitch who’d walked out on her war-hero husband.

But Richard wasn’t thinking about Danny. “So you’re Morgan’s mum? He’s a super little character, is Morgan. Walked Watson for me quite often during the summer holidays, and probably had the sense to have the bugger on a lead. He’d despair of me – and quite right too.”

Tara smiled at the warmth in his voice. “Morgan would have assessed every inch of the walk before he let the dog go. He likes to have all eventualities covered.”

“I’ll take a leaf out of his book the next time I take the bloody mutt out. He’ll be on the lead all the way to Fowey,” Richard promised. “I guess I’d better be on my way. Watson will be miles away by now. Maybe I should book him in for some obedience classes?”

“I think it’s a bit late in the day for that,” Tara told him, and Richard Penwarren smiled ruefully.

“Yes, I think you may be right. Always too late. Story of my life, that.”

He fell silent and for a moment sadness shadowed his features, before he collected himself and smiled.

“Anyway, nice to meet you, Tara. Hopefully the next time I bump into you it won’t be quite so literal and,” he glanced in confusion at the fluttering ribbons and tinkling bells, “in quite such a strange place. What is all this, anyway?”

Embarrassed at being caught here herself and in the act of wishing for true love, Tara decided to be economical with the truth. Richard was a doctor and no doubt a rational man; he would probably think her as bonkers as Silver Starr from Polwenna Bay’s mystic shop if he knew what she’d been up to.

“I think it’s an old well,” she hedged, crossing her fingers deep in her coat pocket and hoping that he didn’t ask anyone in the village.

“It’s pretty,” Richard said thoughtfully. “There’s a nice energy too, isn’t there? It feels like a place where good things happen. Apart from being flattened by mad dogs and doctors, obviously!”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled and he looked much younger.

Tara smiled back. “Yes, apart from all that commotion, it was a very peaceful spot.”

“Well, I won’t disturb you for a second longer,” Richard promised. “I’d better find Watson before he creates even more havoc. Nice to meet you, Tara. Say hello to Morgan and tell him any time he wants a dog I’ve got one going spare!”

“Hmm, I may not remember all of that message,” said Tara. “Stick insects are about my limit.”

“Can’t go wrong with a good stick insect,” nodded Richard. “It’d look a bit daft on a lead though!”

And then he was gone, crashing through the undergrowth and yelling his dog’s name
so loudly that people could probably hear him in Devon. Tara couldn’t help laughing as she retraced her steps to the village. She was still smiling when she walked back through the narrow streets. Sunshine, fresh air and exercise as well as the feeling that today was a new start had put her in a much more optimistic frame of mind. Richard’s comical behaviour had amused her, and she’d been touched by his fondness for Morgan. Despite her doubts about coming back to Polwenna Bay, hearing someone speak so positively about her son had certainly helped to soothe her anxieties. Nothing mattered as much as Morgan’s happiness.

Tara was still thinking about her son as she passed the village green and the brightly lit window of Silver Starr’s shop, Magic Moon
.
The scent of pasties wafted across the street and her mouth watered. It must be almost lunchtime by now. Maybe she and Morgan could have a pasty picnic on the quayside and throw the crusts to the gulls like they used to do. That would be fun.

“Mum! Mum!”

As though she’d magicked him just by standing outside the mystic shop, here was Morgan now, scurrying down the road towards her. As always, his camera was in his hand – but, unusually, it was out of its case and bashing against his leg. Morgan had a very intent expression on his face. There was no sign of Alice either, which was odd. He was never far from his great granny.

Something was wrong…

“Mum!” Morgan gasped, hurling himself at Tara’s legs and almost felling her. “Don’t let her take my camera, Mum! Please!”

His eyes were wide with terror and, pulling him close, Tara felt him shaking. What on earth was going on? Her son was petrified.

“My camera!” Morgan kept sobbing. “She’s going to take my camera!”

“Who is?” Tara asked, but Morgan was too beside himself to answer. All Tara could do was cast her gaze around for any teenaged thugs who might have been terrorising her child – but she drew a total blank. There was one spotty youth sprawled on a bench texting, and across the village green a pair of girls were looking longingly into the window of the clothes shop, but of camera-snatching yobs there was no sign.

“No one’s going to take your camera, Morgan,” Tara said, tightening her arms around him. “I promise.”

But Morgan wasn’t convinced. “She will! She said so! Even Granny Alice can’t stop her.”

“Who says they’re taking your camera, sweetheart? Are you sure that was what they meant?”

Having a tendency to take things literally meant that sometimes Morgan got things confused. Tara hoped that this was just one of those times, but instinct told her otherwise. She wished Danny was here. He was fantastic at keeping Morgan calm, whereas she tended to get far too upset, which only made things ten times worse.

“Her!” Morgan cried, pointing down the road to an elderly woman who was scuttling closer and yelling. Her face was pinched with rage and her mouth was pursed up tighter than a cat’s bottom. She was waving a fist at Morgan and shrieking more loudly than the seagulls.

Morgan ducked behind Tara and wailed, “Poison Ivy!”

Tara looked up and down the street, half expecting to see a Marvel supervillain appear. But no, Morgan really did seem to be terrified of this rapidly approaching old woman. What on earth?

“Mum, she’s going to throw it in the river! She said so! Please don’t let her!” Morgan wept.

Tara had no idea who this elderly woman was or why she was so angry with Morgan, but there was no way she was letting any adult, old or otherwise, frighten her child like this.

“You give me that camera right now, you little tyke!” Morgan’s pursuer shouted from further down the road. “How dare you take pictures of me without my permission? That’s against the law, I’ll have you know! I’ll call the police and they’ll lock you up!”

At this threat, Morgan really began to panic. “I don’t want to be locked up! Don’t let them lock me up, Mum!”

“No one’s locking you up,” Tara promised him fiercely. “Of course they’re not.”

“Ivy, calm down, for heaven’s sake!” cried another voice. “He didn’t mean any harm. He’s just a child!”

Granny Alice, pink in the face and with her hand on her heart, was trying in vain to catch the other woman’s arm and slow her down. Unfortunately each attempt only met with her being shaken off. It wasn’t long before Ivy was within spitting distance of Morgan and Tara.

“You’re the mother, I presume?” demanded the furious old woman. She stood with her hands on her bony hips and looked at Tara as someone might look at something nasty on the sole of their shoe. “This is
your
child?”

Tara put a protective arm around Morgan and drew him close to her again. “Yes, I’m Morgan’s mother.”

“Call yourself a mother? Pah! You’re a disgrace, that’s what you are!” the elderly woman hissed. “He’s been spying on me! Spying! What do you say to that? Hmm?”

“Spying?” This accusation threw Tara, and her angry retort evaporated on her lips. “That doesn’t sound like Morgan. Are you sure?”

Tara’s question enraged the other woman even more. “Are you calling me a liar?” Saliva flecked the corners of her mouth and splattered her chin as she spoke.

“No, of course not. But spying?” In desperation Tara turned to Alice, who had just caught up. “What on earth’s going on here?”

“Morgan took Ivy’s picture outside church,” wheezed Alice. “He shouldn’t have done, of course, but you know how he is about taking pictures.”

Tara certainly did. Photography was Morgan’s pet obsession, and he was pretty good at it too. This seemed a huge overreaction just for snapping a photo.