Coming Home: An uplifting feel good novel with family secrets at its heart

On the train from Bodmin, Henry’s head was full of his mother. He couldn’t forget the hurt that his grandparents had endured for all those years. He laid the responsibility of their unhappiness squarely at her door. What kind of mother would just piss off, dumping her children with parents who had only ever given her every helping hand they could? They had loved and supported her and she repaid them by running away without a backward glance. Not a note, not a phone call.

What a cow.

He had no desire to see her or listen to any pathetic excuses or apologies.

And who the bloody hell was his father? Was he the same man who fathered Ella?

Poor Ella. A girl needed her mum. Granny did her best, but even so …

On and on his thoughts went until he had exhausted his brain. Putting on his headphones he got out his laptop to watch a film he’d downloaded but he couldn’t concentrate and eventually returned to looking at the world racing past his window while he brooded.

‘So, do you like my brother?’ Ella asked, nestling in to Kit as they walked on the beach that afternoon.

‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about your mum, hasn’t he?’ he said, putting his arm around her.

‘He remembers bits about her. Vague stuff, but I think it was nice things – and then suddenly she was gone. So, like a bereavement, he still grieves unconsciously.’

‘And what about you? Do you want to see her?’

‘I’ve promised Henry now.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

‘I’m curious.’ They walked together in silence for a while before she said, ‘Yes, I’d really like to see her. I’d like to know why. What happened. Who my dad is. I’ve always wanted to know, but Granny and Poppa had a sort of unspoken thing so that we didn’t talk about her. Poppa was brokenhearted when she left and Granny bore the brunt of his grief whilst grieving herself.’

‘Must have been hard for them.’ Kit pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. ‘How old were you again?’

‘Thirteen months. Henry was two. Not so bad for me – I have no memories, not even impressions. But Henry knew her. I mean really knew her. Had cuddles and bedtime stories and walking on the beach and playing. Somewhere in his head he must have those feelings. No wonder he’s so angry.’

Henry arrived at Mandalay Road, Clapham at the same time Kit and Ella were talking. His taxi drew up, double parked, and he paid the cabbie before hauling his weekend bag over his shoulder. He stood motionless before suddenly throwing up Ella’s pasty and coffee on the kerb outside his front door.

There were several letters on the mat as he pushed the door open. Bills and a catalogue. He picked them up and chucked them on the hall table, went into the kitchen to switch the kettle on before making himself a cup of tea. While the kettle was boiling he went up and dumped his bag on his bed and had a quick pee.

Downstairs, sitting on the sofa with his mug of tea, he looked around his home. Above the fireplace was one of his grandfather’s paintings: a small girl with red hair sitting on the quay at Trevay with a crab line in her hand. It was unusual in that this was one of the very few canvases Poppa had painted. Poppa was the Potter – Granny was the painter.

In front of him was an Indian carved coffee table. His grandfather had brought it back from a trip to Rajasthan and Henry and Ella had always had their Friday night supper of fish and chips on it, rather than at the big kitchen table. It was their treat and marked the start of their weekends.

‘Argh,’ he said angrily to the empty room. ‘I am not going to see that woman.’ The sofa sagged as he leant back into it. His grandmother’s again. She and Poppa had bought it when they first married and moved into Pencil House. A ridiculously tall, thin house that was one of the landmarks of Trevay. A place where visitors still stood and had photos taken of themselves. His own mother, born in that house, had grown up with this sofa, just as he and Ella had. He tried to imagine his mother as a child, sitting where he was sitting, having a bedtime story read to her. Being hugged by Granny or Poppa just as he and Ella had been. Well, she was not coming back to take this from him. Or the paintings. Or the table. Or the bloody wine glasses. They were his. His and Ella’s, as was every stick of furniture or cutlery in this house.

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Bill and Adela waited for two years before they married. Adela wanted to finish her degree and Bill wanted to make sure he had enough savings to begin married life in a home of their own.

Tucked up in the chill of Adela’s Marylebone bedroom they talked of their future.

‘Do you think we can afford to start a family straight away?’ Adela had asked hopefully, her face pressed into the warmth of Bill’s chest.

‘How much do babies cost?’ he had asked.

‘Not much. I’ll ask around the family for the essentials. I’m sure my old pram is stuck in the attic somewhere. We can use the kitchen sink as a bath and I’ll feed the little mite myself so …’

She heard his laugh rumbling in his chest as he tightened his arm around her.

‘What are you laughing at?’

‘Your practicality and frugality. Most women would want brand-new everything.’

‘Well, I don’t. And I have a few books of Green Shield stamps that I’m sure would get us a cot.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘And where would we live? This garret of yours is fine for us but it would be a squeeze for three of us. And I don’t fancy carrying the pram up and down three flights of stairs.’

‘I always imagined us going back to Cornwall,’ she said quietly. ‘My parents have spotted a tiny place in Trevay, on the harbour.’

As she lifted her head to check his reaction to this piece of news, he saw the longing in her.

‘I’m not having handouts from your parents.’

‘No, no. Nor me. And I hadn’t said anything to them about looking for something. Honestly.’

‘Then how do they know about it?’

‘My mother sent me something.’ Adela shifted herself from her arms and slipped out of bed. She tiptoed across the icy lino and reached for a newspaper stuffed into her handbag and got back to the warmth of her bed as fast as she could. ‘Here, look.’ She turned to the properties page and handed it to him. ‘There.’ She pointed.

He scanned the small advert and blurry picture.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, tucking herself around him again.

‘It’s a derelict shop.’

‘An old chandler’s, actually.’

‘But not a residential home.’

‘That’s why it’s such a good price.’

‘No indoor bathroom? No bedrooms? No kitchen and no heating? And it’ll be freezing.’

‘But, stuck between those two houses as it is, it will keep itself warm.’

He said nothing.

She pressed on. ‘Bill, it’s so pretty, and I don’t mind living in a building site and I can do lots of labouring for you. Between us we could build the home we really want.’

He held her anxious gaze. ‘You really like it?’ he said.

She nodded, her fingers crossed under the eiderdown. ‘Don’t you?’