Winter Wishes (19 page)

If the weather mirrored moods, then today was fitting her dismal one perfectly, Tara decided as she made her way to the village shop. The clouds hung so low over Polwenna that even Ashley’s house was hidden from view and the sea was just a pewter line beyond the grey harbour wall. Relentless drizzle blew up the valley to soak everything from flower beds to fishing gear, and seagulls dripped silently from their chimney-pot perches. Now and again a car swished through the village, its headlights turning the wet roads to gold, and the odd brave soul armed with an umbrella splashed to the shops, but other than this the streets were quiet. Tara’s hair dripped down her neck and her nose was running with the cold. Even the tissue she’d stowed in her pocket was nothing more than a useless mass of pulp now.

Sniffing like an A-lister with a coke habit and sporting a red nose that would put Rudolph to shame, Tara almost laughed out loud at the stupidity of coming back here. Cornwall in November. No tourists, no sunshine and no hope of escape. It had driven her mad before, so what on earth had she been thinking? It was an indication of just how desperate she was that she’d even contemplated returning.

The rain was growing heavier, driving up the narrow street in icy torrents, so it was with relief that Tara finally ducked into the village store. She noticed that the usual gaggle of matriarchs had clustered around the counter at the far end. They were deep in conversation, though, and despite the loud jangle of the shop bell they remained blissfully oblivious to who was coming in. Tara was thankful for this; she’d come to buy some sausages for Morgan’s dinner and not to be grilled herself. Picking up a wire basket, she began to choose some groceries. As always, she looked carefully at the prices, selecting the special offers, the marked-down veg and the budget ranges rather than the higher-end items. There was money in her purse – Danny was always more than generous with child support – but Tara hated feeling that she wasn’t paying her own way, and it was a point of honour now to eke out any funds for as long as possible. This hadn’t been too hard in Plymouth when she’d been doing a few hours here and there as a beautician and when she’d been able to look for bargains in Aldi or Lidl, but it was proving tricky in a small village shop where things tended to be more expensive.

I need to find a job
, Tara decided as her hand hovered over some tempting pork and cider sausages before plumping for the cheapest ones in the cabinet instead. She dreaded to think what might have gone into these – probably not a great deal of meat, anyway – but at two whole pounds less it was a no-brainer. Of course, Alice would cook for them if she asked, but Tara wanted to provide for her son herself. Maybe it was a case of being too proud for her own good. Tara wasn’t sure, but she knew that it didn’t feel right to be living on the charity of her estranged husband’s grandmother. Living in Seaspray wasn’t going to be a long-term option either, not if things continued to be this difficult with Danny. There was an atmosphere you could cut with blunt kiddy scissors, never mind a knife, and it was only a matter of time before this began to affect Morgan.

No, Tara concluded as the alarmingly pink sausages landed in her basket, if she and Morgan were to stay and if there was any hope of rebuilding her relationship with Danny then she had to have her independence. Maybe this would make him respect her again? So it might be November, the worst time to find employment in a village so highly geared to the tourist trade, but there was bound to be something about. There were always jobs going in the pub or up at the hotel. At least with family nearby to take care of Morgan it would be possible to work to more unsociable hours. As soon as the shopping was done she’d walk over to The Ship and see if there were any vacancies.

Buoyed by having some kind of a plan, Tara threw caution to the wind and swapped the low-cost sausages for the more expensive ones, then added a tin of Heinz beans and some Cornish butter to her selection. With the basket feeling pleasantly heavy, she was just in the process of getting some local King Edwards from the vegetable rack when the strains of conversation from the counter froze her so completely that she was no longer aware of the cool potato mould against her fingers or the dark earth crusting her nails. Instead there was a loud rushing sound in her ears, as though the River Wenn had burst its banks, and all she could focus on were the ugly words from the other side of the vegetable display.

“Well, if you ask me she’s come back with her tail between her legs because yet another man saw right through her. If Danny Tremaine’s got any sense he’ll give her one pound fifty and kick her back across the Tamar Bridge,” Betty Jago was telling her acolytes. “A girl like her just means trouble. Look how she treated him before. And him a war hero too! Shocking!”

There was a murmur of agreement, amidst some fairly energetic tutting.

“I heard that she’s pregnant,” said somebody else to a ripple of shocked glee.

“I heard she had a gambling problem,” added another, who sounded just like Sheila Keverne. “Sandra on the fish stall told me that she’d heard in the pub that there are huge debts that the Tremaines will have to pay.”

“Nothing would surprise me about that one,” Betty Jago said darkly. “Did you hear what happened to that poor little boy on Bonfire Night? She wasn’t looking after him at all and he fell off the rocks. I ask you! What kind of a mother lets that happen?”

“There was a dreadful lot of blood. I thought it was a hospital admission and stitches, but that new doctor wasn’t nearly as thorough as he should be.” Yes, definitely Sheila.

“Perhaps Danny should go for custody? She’s clearly an unfit mother,” mused another voice.

Tara couldn’t listen to another word. Her heart was hammering and her hands and feet had turned icy cold. The potatoes slipped from her grasp and bounced across the shop floor. Before she even registered what she was doing, she stepped out from behind the vegetables and slammed her basket down on the counter so hard that Betty Jago’s feet nearly left the floor. Staring in horror at Tara, the shopkeeper drained of colour and her mouth fell open. The other women instantly dispersed around the shop, busying themselves with magazines or pretending to be interested in the tinned fruit, but Betty was trapped behind the checkout desk.

“Don’t stop the conversation on my account,” said Tara coldly. “I was absolutely fascinated. I’m an unfit mother and a gambler, am I? That’s all news to me. Keep going, please. I can’t wait to find out what’s coming next. It’s better than an episode of
EastEnders
. Actually, don’t tell me, I’ll guess. Alice is secretly Danny’s mother? Issie is actually a boy? Or maybe I’m on drugs? That would be really juicy, wouldn’t it? A big fat heroin habit for you all to gossip about. Maybe I could shoot up on the quay or in the pasty shop?”

“Tara, dear, I had no idea you were in the shop,” Betty said faintly.

“No! Really?” Tara’s lip curled.

Betty stared miserably down at her counter. If she hadn’t been spreading such poison Tara could almost have pitied her.

“Anything else the rest of you want to add?” she asked the others, glancing around. Nobody was able to look her in the eye. “Come on, ladies. Don’t be shy. Sheila’s already given her medical opinion – congratulations on qualifying from medical school by the way, I must have missed that one – and Betty, if you catch me playing the fruit machine in the pub, please do make sure to call Gamblers Anonymous, won’t you?”

Sheila and Betty didn’t know where to look. It was awkward enough for them to have been caught in the full flow of their malicious gossiping, but being challenged by the very subject of their spiteful speculations had wrong-footed them all the more.

“Well? Anyone want to add something?” Tara repeated. She was so angry that she felt she might explode like one of last week’s fireworks. “Come on, don’t be shy. You were all happy enough to voice your opinions just now, so please, don’t hold back on my account.”

Betty’s face was an exact match for her scarlet pinny.

“Honestly, Tara, I had no idea you were here, love,” Betty said again.

“Yes, I got that. So what you really mean is that you were gossiping about me behind my back?” Tara couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “How very unusual! Well, do you know what? How about in future you just keep your pathetic, small-minded opinions to yourselves and leave me and my family out of it? And here’s another thing—” She shoved her basket hard towards Betty. “You can keep your sodding overpriced sausages too!”

Shaking with fury and adrenalin, Tara stormed out of the shop. She was so blinded by outrage that she only noticed the tall figure who was about to enter when she cannoned straight into him. Two strong hands caught her shoulders and steadied her, otherwise she probably would have fallen into the puddles. Yes, that would have topped today’s crappy morning off perfectly, she thought grimly.

Grey eyes behind rain-speckled glassed crinkled at her. “Steady on, Mrs Tremaine! I’m not used to beautiful women throwing themselves at me!”

“I’m so sorry!” Tara gasped, shocked out of her rage sufficiently to realise that she’d barged into Dr Penwarren, he of the badly behaved dog and lunatic hairdresser mother. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Then I’m totally disappointed. I thought my luck had changed,” Richard deadpanned. When she didn’t laugh, he added hastily, “That was a joke, by the way, albeit it a pretty inept attempt at one. I didn’t mean to imply… say that I thought…” He ran a hand through his tufty hair and his face turned pink. “Oh Christ. I’m just digging myself in deeper here with every word. You’re upset, aren’t you?”

“It’s fine,” Tara told Richard quickly, before he could grab a shovel and really go for broke. “You’ve not offended me, I promise. In fact, that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me for weeks.”

“Seriously?” Richard looked shocked.

She nodded. “Seriously. Come on, Dr Penwarren, you might be new to the village but surely you’ve noticed that I’m not exactly popular around here? If I look upset then it’s because I’ve just had a run-in with the vicious old biddies in the shop. I’m doing a runner before they fetch the ducking stool.”

His kind grey eyes were troubled. “I do my best not to listen to village gossip and I’m constantly telling my mother that she really ought to do the same.” He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “My mother isn’t in the shop, is she?”

Tara shook her head. “Just Betty, Sheila and their cronies. I ought to know better than to let them get to me, but today…”

“Today the weather’s rubbish, you’re having a hard time readjusting to village life and their small-mindedness just touched a nerve?”

It was on the tip of Tara’s tongue to tell Richard that calling her an unfit mother was more than just touching a nerve, but a small part of her was scared that maybe they’d been right. After all, hadn’t she let Morgan slip on the rocks? And hadn’t she been the one to walk out on the marriage? She didn’t want one of the few people who’d been friendly towards her to think badly of her. There was something so warm and so kind about Richard that you just wanted to pour out your troubles to him. It was probably what made him such a good GP.

“That’s probably it,” she agreed.

He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s nearly lunchtime and I could do with something before afternoon surgery. How about we head to the pub for some food and a warm-up by the fire? My treat,” he added quickly. “I could do with the company of someone who understands how it feels to be an outsider here.”

“I’m worse than an outsider. I’m an insider who blew it,” Tara said bitterly.

“To err is human; to forgive, divine,” Richard quoted. “I think Alexander Pope said that. I don’t see many gods and goddesses around Polwenna Bay, but I do see lots of normal human beings just trying to make the best of things and sometimes getting it wrong.”

She looked up at him. “So you’re saying we all mess up?”

“I guess I am. And if I don’t have a good lunch I’ll be far too hungry to concentrate on my patients this afternoon, and then who knows how awful my mess-ups could be? I have an ingrown toenail to attend to and several other things that I won’t mention before we eat. You’ll be doing me a favour by helping make sure I can focus!”

Tara almost made an excuse about needing to get home to put the sausages for Morgan’s dinner in the fridge. Then she remembered that all her food shopping was left on the shop counter and, unless she was prepared to eat a huge slice of humble pie, there was no way she could go in and collect it. Besides, Morgan would be thrilled to eat whatever Alice had made. His great grandmother was a fantastic cook, whereas Tara pretty much burned water. There would be nothing for her to do at Seaspray except hide in her room, watch the raindrops trickle down the windowpane and fret about just how thoroughly she’d managed to sabotage her own life.

It was not a happy prospect. Lunch with Richard could be fun. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to find out if there was any bar work going. There was no time like the present.

“I’ll even throw in some of their sticky toffee pudding,” Richard said, sensing her weakening.

“Now you’ve got me,” Tara said. “I can’t resist that. Lunch sounds great, thanks.”

The Ship was busy with lunchtime trade: a mixture of villagers and the last resilient tourists had crammed into the tiny low-beamed building to enjoy bowls of soup, ploughmen’s lunches and creamy fish pie packed with the spoils of the local trawlers. Richard and Tara managed to squeeze themselves into a window seat overlooking the quay, where they enjoyed piping hot minestrone and watched the grey waves churning beyond the softly misted-up windows. The log fire in the grate soon dried Tara’s damp clothes and she found herself starting to relax, as much from Richard’s easy company as from the warmth. Before long she found herself opening up to him. Richard was no fool and had lived in the village just long enough to have heard the story of the local war hero’s runaway wife, but he didn’t probe to know more. Tara was surprised to find that she was able to divulge some of the true story to him. Of course, she could never tell him the whole story – only Danny knew that – but she was able to share some of her concerns about needing to be independent and to do the right thing for Morgan.