and cosy with tiny windows and a thatched roof. It’s idyllic, not a façade. There are no wicked truths hiding behind its perfection.
I slide my key into the lock, making extra quick work of it when I hear movement from Mrs Quigg’s house next door. The town’s busybody, there’s nothing that escapes her notice, and she makes a point of making sure everyone knows, too. The whole town will hear I’m back before Mum has a chance to put the kettle on.
I push my way through the door and slam it shut behind me. Then I drop my bag to the floor and fall against the hallway wall, feeling like I’ve just run the gauntlet. Then I laugh because, technically, I have. I’m still not sure what I was thinking coming back to Helston. But of all the things I feared I would find here, Becker wasn’t one. Nor was Brent. But I’ve handled them. Set the record straight. While they continue with their pathetic games, I have a life to get on with.
‘Don’t move, motherfucker!’
I yelp, whirling around to find a baseball bat being brandished in my face. ‘Shit!’ Staggering back, I blindly grapple for the front door as my heart smashes against my chest. Then the dim, natural light is suddenly replaced with a harsh, artificial glare.
‘Eleanor?’ The sound of the gruff voice halts my frantic attempt to escape, and my grappling hands freeze on the door handle. I give my body a few moments to stop pulsing from adrenalin, my mind trying to place the voice. It doesn’t take long.
‘Paul?’ I say, slowly turning, my mind all knotted, as if it wasn’t twisted enough already. The baseball bat lowers, and I finally allow my eyes to take a good long look at the landlord of our local pub. He’s a big man, tall and round, and his head is skimming the low ceiling of our hallway. He’s in a pair of underpants, his grey hair mussed, his big nose squished from endless breakages, and his pot belly is displayed loud and proud. The ex-pro boxer is out of shape but still pretty formidable. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask mindlessly, trying to keep my eyes on his usually happy face. It’s not happy now. Now it’s somewhere between surprise and awkwardness.
Paul laughs under his breath, backing away. ‘Um . . . yes . . . well . . .’ He stutters and stammers all over his words, and my frown lines deepen with each confusing second that passes.
There’s a sudden burst of activity behind him, and someone crashes into his back, sending him staggering forward a few steps. ‘What is it, Paul? What’s going on?’
I don’t need a nanosecond to place that voice.
Mum.
‘It’s okay, Mary,’ Paul soothes, calming my alarmed mother.
She’s pulling in the sides of her dressing gown, her eyes darting, alarmed. Then she finds me standing by the front door, mouth hanging open. I’m blank.
‘Eleanor!’ she squeals and dives forward, ready to tackle-hug me. I’m not sure if she suddenly comprehends that something is amiss here, or whether my face tells her so, but she skids to a stop before she makes it to me. Then she takes hold of the wall next to her. ‘Oh . . .’ she breathes, her eyes widening.
Oh? I can feel my face muscles twisting, yet I find myself chuckling. I don’t know why. ‘What’s Paul doing here, Mum?’ I already know. Something close to an explanation is developing in my tired mind and I seriously do not like what I’m coming up with. Or maybe my mind is playing games with me. Please say my mind is playing games with me!
Mum starts chuckling, too. It’s a nervous laugh. Just like mine. ‘You never said you were coming home, darling.’ She takes a step back and collides with Paul’s naked pot belly, and his hand comes up and rests on my mum’s arm, steadying her.
My eyes root to his hold of her and don’t move when I answer my mother’s wary question. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ I say quietly, watching as Paul’s hand releases her. I look up at him. He’s evading my questioning stare. The explanation that was developing in my tired mind is suddenly complete. My eyes drift across to my mother. ‘Mum?’
Her lips straighten, and she exhales. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for months.’
‘Months?’ I cry, my mouth dropping open. ‘But . . . how?’ I’m at a loss. ‘Months?’