The Island Legacy Read online

  The Island Legacy

  by

  Ruth Saberton

  Edition 3

  Copyright

  All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and / or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  Copyright © 2016 Ruth Saberton

  Cover illustration 2016 Jane Dixon-Smith

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Notting Hill Press 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Prologue

  The old man was dying.

  No one had told him so; they didn’t need to. He saw it in their faces, heard it in the hushed whispers spoken when they thought he was asleep, and felt it in the dragging weariness of his soul. His time was coming; it wouldn’t be long now. Did they really think he wouldn’t know?

  The girl was crying by his bedside, her hand holding his tightly as though this grip alone could keep him tethered. Sometimes she blew her nose and sometimes she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. He wanted to tell her not to weep, that he was at peace with it all and how much he appreciated everything she’d done, but the words could no longer form on his lips and all he could do was sigh. She wasn’t a girl any longer, of course, but a woman in her forties. He wondered whether she’d be able to stay here once he’d gone. He hoped so. Would she be in trouble for what she’d done? Had he asked too much? Stretched her loyalty too far?

  Maybe. But what other choice had there been? When the dream had come again, the water closing over his head followed by the fruitless diving, he’d known what he had to do. He should have done it from the moment he first started to have doubts, but time had seemed elastic back then: there had always been a reason to wait and see, a thousand arguments why there ought to have been another way. It was only when he’d overheard a conversation never intended for his ears that the old man had realised how quickly time’s sands were trickling through his weak grasp. If the girl hadn’t been willing to help him and there hadn’t still been friends he could trust, the future for his home would have been as bleak as the Cornish winters.

  There were answers for her unspoken questions too. These were in the music and at her fingertips. Would she find them? He’d never know, but he’d left hints and breadcrumb trails to lead her to them. He wanted to set straight the mistakes of the past. In time, perhaps, she’d discover the pages of his diary that he’d torn out and hidden; until then, the music of his heart was silenced, awaiting the turn of a key. The clues were in the games they’d once played to while away the long winters. Would she remember? He had to trust so.

  The days were slipping into one another now, merging into a shuffle of footsteps, low-voiced conversations, and warm sunshine on his face when the curtains were open or velvet blackness when night fell. Sometimes he dozed, and occasionally he slept so deeply that he thought his time had already come, but mostly he lay back against the pillows and watched the world beyond his window. As the clouds tumbled by and the waves danced their endless ballet across the mouth of the bay, the music played through his memory, as clear and as fresh as though he’d written it yesterday rather than half a lifetime ago.

  His music. His life’s work. His true legacy. Would she understand what he’d tried to tell her? Would she know that he hadn’t forgotten but instead had left her the most precious gift of all? The old man hoped his faith in her hadn’t been misplaced. If it had, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong to trust a woman, but at least it would be the last. There was no greater disappointment, no sharper pain than that of betrayal.

  Outside the view was the same as ever. The old man had seen it almost every day of his life and it was as familiar to him as his own face in the looking glass – maybe even more so. Unlike his own reflection, St Pirran never changed. Even when his eyes became too heavy to open, he knew the town would still be perched on the steep hillside, each whitewashed building clinging on as the land fell away to the glittering sea below. In between the cottages and houses was greenery: gardens and hedges and gaudy flowerbeds laced up with steep narrow lanes threading through the town like ribbons on a patchwork corset. Lichen-speckled rooftops and crumbling stone walls freckled both sides of the River Pirran, which opened out onto the horseshoe beach. The beach was empty now, on an early spring day, but come high season it would be peppered with windbreaks and picnicking visitors.

  How he wished it was summer. Then he would have heard the cries of excited children, carried up to his window on a warm breeze, their laughter ringing with the joy of long sandy days, ice creams and sunshine. Those were the sounds of life and possibilities, sounds he had transposed to his musical scores and knew he’d never hear them again. Today all that broke the silence was the mournful calling of gulls and the breaking of waves onto the sharp rocks. The world beyond the castle walls had a music all of its own; it played its own symphony.

  The crashing surf and the harshness of his breathing seemed to become one, a rasping sigh like the tide as it rose up the beach then fell back in the endless rhythm the town and its inhabitants lived by. It was the same cadence that saw the fishing boats rise and fall, or that enticed the wading birds into the shallows. It was a perpetual, teasing dance that hid and revealed the causeway – a silver sparkling path leading to St Pirran’s Island.

  St Pirran’s Island. His home. His place. His penance.

  The old man’s eyelids were leaden but he could open them just enough to see that the tide was in – a mile of blue water stretching between the island and the town. The surface looked deceptively smooth, yet underneath it lurked currents and serpent-toothed rocks waiting to snare the unwary and the careless. How many times had he and his brothers sailed their dinghy across the bay to the town? Or later on sprinted across in speedboats, loud and self-assured and so blissfully unaware of what was yet to come? Even all this time on it made his tired heart lurch to think about the catastrophe that had been awaiting them. In every nightmare since, he’d tried to warn them all but the words had shrivelled on his tongue. In his dreams, as in real life, he could only watch. There they were on the quayside: Addy, red-haired and reckless, and Maudsley so serious – yet both so full of the confidence and certainty that only comes with youth. Beth was always there too, in a wide-brimmed hat and with her long limbs honey-gold from endless Cornish summer days, sitting on the prow and watching them with those knowing feline eyes. When that cool green-eyed gaze had flickered to him he’d felt her power; it was only on his deathbed that the old man finally understood that none of them had ever had any real choice.

  The fate of three was sealed from the moment Armand brought Beth home to Pirran Castle.

  The old man closed his eyes again. He could see those long-lost faces just as vividly as he’d seen the white-tipped waves racing across St Pirran’s Bay. Sometimes he thought he glimpsed all three in the shadowy corners of the bedroom, as though they were only waiting for the right moment to step forward and take his hands. If he listened hard enough he could hear them talking – Addy’s bitter tones rising and falling with the tide, Maudsley’s words harsher than the salt spray hurling itself against the windows, and Beth’s laughter drifting in the breeze in rippling, silvery notes.

  Beneath the warmth of his quilt, the old man shivered. The time for him to join them was
drawing closer with every seagull’s cry and every breaking wave. It wouldn’t be long now. The final movement of his life was almost played out.

  Yet time seemed to pause. Hang heavy. Hold its breath. Maybe he slept a little, he could no longer tell, but when he opened his eyes again the sun was already sinking into the sea. The sky was streaked with orange and red and peach, and across the bay lights were coming on in cottage windows, their reflections trembling in the river and the harbour. Soon the inky night would seep in and St Pirran’s Island would be cut off; the small castle perched atop it would once again be a lost kingdom floating in the dark sea.

  This was the old man’s domain, but not for much longer. He knew that his grasp on the place was loosening. It was time to let it go. The thought of release was becoming more welcome with the turn of every tide. Yet, weary as he was, his mind was as sharp ever. The old man knew that for some it was now a matter of waiting and watching and rubbing their greedy hands together.

  Well, let them wait and watch and plot. It was time to make amends.

  The one thing he could do had been done. The ink had only been dry for a matter of days but no matter; the documents were legally signed and witnessed and sealed. The answers had been placed where only the true heir would ever look. How he’d struggled to organise it all! It had been such an effort to drag himself through the castle: every footstep had felt like a thousand miles and each part of the plan had required every drop of his rapidly draining energy. Still, nobody would be able to contest his state of mind and nor could anyone undo what he’d set in motion. The old man would have laughed if he’d had the strength. There would be surprises and anger and struggles, just as there had always been at the castle – but these were no longer his concern. He’d made his choices. His time was almost finished.

  Were those choices the right ones? Could they compensate for the sins of the past? The old man couldn’t tell, but perhaps his quivering signature had been an atonement of sorts. The rest the youngsters would have to decide for themselves; his island family would need to close ranks in order to survive. As for the future of the island, the nesting birds, the colony of seals, the crumbling castle with the nodding dog roses, the roofless chapel still heavy with the prayers of ages – all these were out of his hands.

  The sun was sliding into the water now without any resistance, as though saying ease was all, there was no need to fight. The day was letting go and as the light began to bleed from the sky the old man felt something in himself release too.

  It was time. He wouldn’t see the turn of this tide.

  Was the island’s legacy safe? He could only hope so. His time as its guardian had drawn to a close.

  Holding out his hands to those who’d set out before him, the old man slipped into the gathering shadows and the music of his long life gently faded away.

  Chapter 1

  May time in Cornwall always arrived with a sense of anticipation. After long winter months of quiet lanes, empty cottages and deserted beaches the area burst back into life just like the hedgerows that were exploding with bluebells, wild garlic and foaming cow parsley. A similar explosion took place over the Tamar Bridge as vehicles poured into the county, stuffed from dashboard to boot with suitcases, food and squabbling children, and with surfboards strapped precariously to roof racks like colourful Mohicans. Narrow lanes, untraversed for weeks, soon became the scene of much stress as city folks in huge cars tried to squeeze past one another without hitting banks or ending up in ditches. Meanwhile the locals resigned themselves to the usual inconvenience of reversing or taking alternative routes in order to get anywhere at all.

  In the pretty seaside town of St Pirran the holiday cottages had been cleaned from top to bottom and their shutters thrown wide open in anticipation of the bank holiday influx. The owner of the local deli had been flat out making up picnic baskets crammed with goat-cheese tartlets, olives and artisan breads – no bog-standard pasties and saffron buns for St Pirran’s clientele. The manager of the town’s clothes store was busying herself redesigning the window display to showcase the usual peak-season items: fishing smocks and sailing slacks in pastel-hued fabrics that no self-respecting local would dream of wearing when working on a boat, and spotty hessian bags with price tags that made many townspeople see dots dance before their eyes.

  In the art gallery the splashy seaside-themed paintings had been adjusted to their most saleable positions and a selection of chunky silver jewellery was now backlit in the window. The bookshop, meanwhile, was featuring the latest tome by a celebrity second-homer. The gift shop’s proprietor had wheeled out spinning displays of postcards and piled buckets and spades in prime beachgoing position. Traffic crawled along the main street as new arrivals tried their best to spot their holiday cottages; as usual, they seemed oblivious to the narrowing of the road and the fact that only the river’s edge lay beyond. Every season somebody managed to get their car tightly wedged, and The Castle pub always ran a sweepstake on when this would be. Each year it happened earlier than the last. It seemed that the cars were becoming bigger and the drivers were getting dafter – either that, or the wet winter had made St Pirran shrink.

  As well as running sweepstakes for the locals, the harbourside pub was preparing to up its culinary game: it had recently abandoned its limited selection of basket meals, in favour of a Rick Stein inspired menu. The new fare was beautifully advertised on a chalkboard covered in italic writing. Not to be beaten, St Pirran’s chip shop was promoting In Cod We Trust’s very own gourmet chips, made from Cornish potatoes. The town’s tea rooms were selling home-made scones and locally sourced jam – and even the ice cream at the beach kiosk was organic and from a nearby dairy.

  Cornwall was on the up, foodies were in heaven and organic was the buzzword. If some of the older townsfolk missed their steak pasties and muttered darkly that they were far from impressed by the stilton and venison variations, then they did so quietly because the tills would soon be ringing. At least, everyone hoped that was going to be the case. Three wet summers in a row, cheap deals to Spain and having the future of Pirran Castle hanging in the balance had made the locals nervous. Living in a picturesque fishing town was blissful in the summer but wages were low, house prices were high and the winters were dark and long. This season needed to be a good one and those in the town who depended on tourism would be working gruelling hours from now until October. This was the reality of life in Cornwall.

  The quayside had been spruced up in anticipation of the influx too. Trawls were tucked into net bins, yellow fish boxes had been stacked into tottering piles, and ropes were coiled neatly alongside the fishing boats that bobbed on the tide and strained impatiently at their moorings. Even the seagulls looked cleaner than usual, their feathers Persil-white and their beady eyes bright as they perched on the rooftops to scope out another season’s easy pickings.

  Cornwall in the holiday season was big business and St Pirran was raring to begin. Even the weather was on the town’s side today, the grey skies and endless rain of the past few weeks having cleared away to reveal a day that was mild and full of promise. The tang of salt filled the air and lemon-sharp sunshine drizzled over the valley, turning the remaining sliver of beach to glistening gold and making the sea sparkle as brightly as any gift-shop window. Even the breeze had died away. The sea was calm now, shimmering in the sunlight; St Pirran’s Island and its tumbledown castle floated in the hazy bay like something from a fairy tale. With the tide in at the moment, small boats were already doing a roaring trade taking visitors on trips around the bay.

  Merryn Hellier knew from experience that when the sun shone in Cornwall you made hay fast – or at the very least did the St Pirran equivalent, which was to take day trippers on boat rides. Although it was only late morning he’d already taken Guardian Angel out on two packed trips and was now setting off on his third. As he stood at the wheel with the wind blowing through his thick blond curls and the sunshine coaxing a cinnamon dusting of freckles across his nose,
Merryn reflected that there was a lot to be said for this way of life. Sparkling open water lay ahead and lace-doily wake trailed behind as his boat danced across the waves. He rolled up his sleeves and braced his strong legs against the swell that he knew always broiled beneath this part of the channel. The currents below the deceptively calm-looking surface were deadly to the unwary; sometimes they surprised even those who were familiar with these waters, a fact to which the town’s graveyard bore testament.

  Merryn knew every inch of this coastline. Having grown up in St Pirran he’d spent most of his childhood messing about in boats and exploring the cliffs. There wasn’t a creek or a hidden cove he hadn’t discovered or a wreck he hadn’t snorkelled. As a boy, his every spare moment had been spent on the water in the small boat he’d saved for from his pocket money. Later on, he’d worked as crew on the trawlers, loving the dawn starts and the sense of possibilities as the big fishing boats rolled out to sea. Harsh quotas and a dwindling fleet had changed that lately, but there was still a living to be made on the sea if you knew where to go and were smart. Merryn smiled to himself as he opened up the throttle and let his boat surge forward like an eager horse. He might not have A-levels or book learning, but he’d quickly realised that in the summer months it made far more sense to fish for a very different kind of haul. Tourists were certainly easier to catch. They lined up on the quay clutching ice creams and trendy hessian bags from the overpriced gift shops and practically fought to be helped down the slippery green steps into the tripping boats. Then all Merryn had to do was sit them down, take them out for half an hour and collect the money. And he even got to suntan at the same time and enjoy all the pretty girls who, in their bikini tops and shorts, liked to giggle and flirt with the skipper. What wasn’t to like about this job? Everyone was a winner!