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11
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, John Ford
Tuesday, 22nd November
Some time in Cornwall can only be a good thing, as I can’t think of a better place to chill. Nor, apparently, can anyone else, because the M3 is jam-packed with thousands of people who have had exactly the same idea, almost as if Cornwall were their only solution, their last resort.
Stuck in a bottleneck, my eyes roam to the other vehicles surrounding me, and all I can see is young families with 2.3 children champing at the bit to hit the coast and enjoy some freedom. Some have surfboards on roof racks, while others simply have those storage cases bursting at the seams. I slide a glance at my luggage and wonder if I’m under-packed.
As I drive deeper into the county along the coastline, turning and twisting down country bends, weaving in and out of the one-horse villages, I wonder whether I’m one of those who are only deluding themselves they’ll find peace coming all the way down here. I mean, it’s not where you are that should save you, but who you’re with, right?
But in that case, I’m in trouble, because it suddenly hits me that I haven’t thought about Stephen once in nearly five hours that it’s taken me to get here. Which is a big no-no in a relationship. Then again, he’s one of the reasons I’ve come down here – to get away from the sense of obligation and humiliation. And it suddenly occurs to me that for a few days, I’ll no longer be under any obligation towards him, nor his mother, my future mother-in-law.
I won’t have to go anywhere I don’t want to or see anyone I don’t want to – nor do I have to smile and make small talk with anyone in whom I’ve got absolutely no interest. I can be myself. Not wear any make-up or heels, or stupid, cruel shapewear or the latest in bangles or scents, or tote the best bag I can afford just so the MIL won’t be ashamed of our future association. I’ve never been one to do so in the first place, but since she’s appeared on my horizon, it’s all about pleasing her so as not to displease him. It’s all about appearances. Never mind what I’m feeling deep down, or what my true wants are. God forbid.
I can’t even remember the last time I’ve let my hair down, or let Stephen see me in my leggings or without make-up. He’s always in perfect order and can’t understand why I could possibly need to let myself go.
‘Next thing, you’re going to start gaining weight,’ he’d once said.
It was going to be a long life of restrictions if I couldn’t bring him round to my way of seeing things. Or be myself in front of him.
*
When I arrive at The Old Bell Inn, it’s like I never left. Penny and Laura are there, greeting me even more cheerfully. And if possible, there seem to be even more decorations and fairy lights. It’s not even December and yet Starry Cove seems to have topped the charts of Festive Villages of England. It seems to be in its own bubble. Like a giant glass snowstorm with the miniature buildings and cobbled streets and lamp posts, all that’s really missing is the snow.
For a moment I pause to wonder whether or not someone may be shooting a Christmas film, because it’s absolutely perfect. They’ve also booked me the same room after I told them how ecstatic I’d been about the constellation views and the falling asleep to the sound of the waves. Tomorrow I’ll call my grandmother and make arrangements to meet her. All I want is to pay my respects. What she thinks about me is irrelevant.
And before I know it, the joy of Christmas is dampened by what is both the day of my grandfather’s memorial service, November 25th – and my original engagement party. Not in my engagement gown but a black mourning dress, and at precisely three o’clock, I’m once again at the gates of Heatherton Hall, feeling like a beggar. To her I must seem a beggar, seeing as I’m here even if she isn’t interested in me. Just like she wasn’t interested in seeing me when I last called. Ah, but since then, I’ve bounced back, ready to do my duty as a granddaughter. Just because.
There’s a limousine ready to go with the driver, Calvin, who looks like Lurch fromThe Addams Family. But something tells me that he’s awfully loyal. I wonder why, seeing as she seems to treat everyone like her personal slaves. Look at poor old Nettie, and yet she’s still working her fingers to the bone to make things comfortable for her. And it’s not just for the job. Nettie really does care.
Nettie answers the door with a grave face appropriate to the dark mood that permeates the house. But she winks at me and silently steers me towards the drawing room before she clears her throat.
‘Miss Weaver has arrived, Lady Heatherton,’ she announces from the door.
‘It’s about time,’ says a soft voice I recognise from our previous call. ‘Let her in.’
‘Yes, Lady Heatherton,’ Nettie says, giving me a gentle nudge.
Lady Heatherton-Smythe, my grandmother, is a tiny, elegant figure sitting at the piano, like a bird perching on its swing. Only she’s not playing. She’s studying all the silver-framed pictures resting on top. Dressed in a stiff black hat the size of a paddling pool and a very expensive outfit, Lady Mary Heatherton-Smythe is nothing but icy as she turns to assess me.
‘Miss Weaver. You’re late,’ she says.
No warmth, no sign of recognition of my kindred DNA. If anything, her turquoise eyes scan me like a cold laser beam. I’ve fallen, I suddenly realise, from the frying pan of my MIL straight into the fire of my grandmother.
She studies me like you would a zit before popping it and I can literally see the disdain and the resignation of having to deal with the fact that I exist, despite her best efforts. I know that for a fact because my mother told me she wanted her to have an abortion. Who actually tells their kids that kind of stuff?
‘Now get changed for the funeral or people will agree with me that you have absolutely no respect for the living or the dead.’
‘Y-yes, ma’am,’ I reply automatically. She may be petite but she’s formidable. ‘Only… I am changed.’
Observing her perfectly smooth face and pressed outfit, my hand steals to my own clothes. And scarf that hides my purple neck. She’s still scanning me in utter silence. Then she sighs as she moves off into the hall.
‘Someone get her a hat and a pair of gloves,’ she says, and Nettie bounces into action.
‘Thank you, Nettie,’ I say as she places a pair of gloves and a hat in my hands. ‘Are these my grandmother’s?’
‘Goodness, no. They’re my niece’s. She left them here from her last visit.’
