“Then we can talk, talk properly. How about a holiday next year? Would you like that? We’ve had such a nice summer here, but maybe next year we could go abroad, somewhere like France?”
Now I pause.
Jamie is frowning intensely.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?”
He stands there, black and white in his school uniform, looking at me, and I can see the deep emotion in his eyes, showing sadness, or worse.
And then he says, “Actually, Rachel, you should know something.”
“What?”
“I already went to France with Mummy. When I was small.”
“Oh.” Rising from the armchair, I chide myself, but I’m not sure why; there is no way I could have known about their holidays. “Well, it doesn’t have to be France, we could try Spain, or Portugal maybe, or—”
He shakes his head, interrupting. “I think she has been staying there. In France. But now she is coming back.”
“Sorry?”
“Mummy! I can hear her.”
He is obviously troubled: the terrible grief is resurfacing again. I respond, as softly as possible, trying to find the right words, “Jamie, don’t be silly. Your mummy is not coming back. Because, well, you know where she is. She passed away. We’ve all seen the grave, haven’t we? In Zennor.”
The boy looks at me long, and hard, his large eyes wet. He looks outright scared. I want to embrace him. Calm him.
Jamie shakes his head, raising his voice. “But she isn’t. She’s not there. She’s not in the coffin. Don’t you know that?”
A darkness opens.
“But, Jamie—”
“They never did. They never found the body.” His voice trembles. “She isn’t in that grave. They never found her. Nobody has ever found my mummy. Ask Daddy. Ask him. She isn’t buried in Zennor.”
Before I can reply, he runs out of the room. I hear his footsteps down the hall, then the same light boyish steps, running up the Grand Staircase. To his bedroom, presumably. And I am left here alone, in the beautiful Yellow Drawing Room. Alone with the intolerable idea that Jamie has placed in my mind.
Pacing across the room I find my laptop, lying on the walnut side table. Wrenching it open, I hesitate, take a deep breath, and then urgently type into the search engine: “death Nina Kerthen.”
I’ve never done this before: because there seemed no need. David told me Nina was dead. He described the tragic accident: Nina fell down the shaft at Morvellan. It was awful. I even went to see her grave in Zennor churchyard, with its poignant epitaph: This is the light of the mind.
My curiosity ended there. I didn’t want to know anything more, it was all too sad. I wanted a brand-new life with my brand-new husband, unblemished by the past.
My fingers tremble as I scroll the page and click on a couple of likely websites. Local news reports. Neatly cached.
No body has been found.
Divers are still searching, but nothing has been discovered.
The body was never found.
Slamming the laptop shut, I stare through the lead diamonds of Carnhallow’s windows: into the green-gray autumn evening, the black trees of Ladies Wood. Gazing deep into the gloom.
Jamie is right. They never found the body.
Yet there is a grave in Zennor. Complete with epitaph.
109 Days Before Christmas
Morning
It must be the most beautiful supermarket view in Britain. The new Sainsbury’s, looking out over Mount’s Bay. To my right is the crowded and steepled town of Penzance, the marina bobbing with boats and activity. On my left is the softly curving coast, disappearing toward the Lizard. And directly in front of me is the tidal island of St. Michael’s Mount, surrounded by vast and shining sands, topped by its medieval castle, comical yet romantic.
There is a coffee shop on the first floor, overlooking the bay. When I come here I always order a skinny cappuccino, and then I step past the dentured pensioners nibbling their pastries and sit outside at the metal tables even when it is cold, as it is today. Cold but sunny, with clouds gathering far to the west, like a rumor.
My coffee sits on the table, neglected this morning, because I have my mobile phone pressed to my ear. David is on the other end. Listening to me, patiently. I am trying very hard not to raise my voice. Trying not to alert the pensioners. Ooh, look at her, that’s the woman who married David Kerthen…
“So, again, why didn’t you tell me? About the body?”
“We’ve been over this already.”
“I know. But think of me as an idiot. I need to hear it several times to understand. Tell me again in small words, David. Why?” I know this is difficult for him. But it is surely more difficult for me.
He answers. “As I said, because it’s not the sort of thing you chat about on a romantic date, is it? Oh, my wife is dead but the body is trapped in a mine, shall we have another drink?”
“Hmm.”
Maybe he has a point, yet I still feel angry. Or perhaps unnerved. Now that it is in my head I can’t get rid of the mental image. The gruesome idea of a body, preserved in icy minewater. Mouth and eyes open, suspended in lightless clarity, and staring into the silence of the drowned corridors, under the rocks of Morvellan.
David is very silent. I can sense his restrained impatience, along with his eagerness to calm me. He is a husband, but he also has a busy job, and he wants to get back to work. But I have more questions.
“Were you worried that I might not move here? Into Carnhallow, if I knew they never found her?”
A pause. “No. Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Well, perhaps. Maybe there was a slight reluctance. It’s not something I like to dwell on. I want to forget all that, I want us to be us. I love you, Rachel, and I hope and believe you are in love with me. I didn’t want the tragedies of the past to have any bearing on our future.”
For the first time this morning I feel a twinge of sympathy for him. Possibly I am overdoing it. After all, he lost a wife, and he has a grieving son. And what would I have done in his situation?
“I do kind of understand,” I say. “And I love you, David. You know that, you surely know that. But—”
“Look, hold on, I’m sorry, darling—I have to take this call.”
The moment I am coming to terms with all this, the agitation returns. David has put me on hold. For the second time this morning.
I tried calling him last night after I discovered the truth about Nina, but his secretary patiently told me he was in some endless, mega-important meeting, until 10 p.m. Then he simply turned his phone off without responding to my many messages. He does that sometimes when he is tired. And normally I don’t mind: his job is hard, if well rewarded, and the hours are insane.
Last night, I minded. I was shaking with fury as I kept reaching voicemail. Answer. The. Phone. This morning he finally picked up. And he has been dealing with me ever since, like a store manager with a furious customer.
As I wait for him to come back on the line, I gaze at that view. It seems less appealing today.
My husband returns. “Hi, sorry, that damn guy from Standard Chartered, they’ve got some crisis, he wouldn’t let me go.”
“Great, so glad you’ve got more important people to talk to. More important things than this.”