The Cornish Knot Read online

  Missing from Megan’s diary were her day-by-day emotions. Unlike earlier, happier entries, she didn’t want to write about her dark days. The black cloud of emptiness that had followed her spiral into depression was creeping back. Her time of solitude was not working out quite as she thought, and she was beset with doubts. Maybe her children were right after all.

  After Jessica had left Paris, Megan took time to map out where to go and where not to go. She’d enjoyed Bath and London and, in the end, loved Paris – thanks to Jessica. Eventually, she had to accept the places Isabel once visited were so altered there was no point in trying to replicate her experiences. Not the buildings so much, nor the monuments or scenery, of course, they were all still there and amazing, but the essence – the things Isabel enjoyed because of the people she met – was quite different.

  No closer to finding Isabel than she had been back in New Zealand, Megan began to question her reasons for wanting to follow in Isabel’s footsteps. What had she expected? Instead, she took Isabel’s journey and drew up a new itinerary. If this was to be her journey rather than a reflection of Isabel’s, then a week in Provence – a holiday cliché if she’d ever heard one – was top of the list. Her route zigzagged across France before she finally arrived in Nice, just like Isabel.

  She left Paris with high hopes of enjoying the passing scenery and small towns she visited. Instead, the train trip was far more difficult than she anticipated. Porters seemed to be a thing of Isabel’s era, not hers. Despite a request for her hotels to send meet-and-greet drivers, the task of hefting her suitcase up and down the steep, narrow steps of the train was almost beyond her. The need to ask strangers to help left her feeling vulnerable and inadequate.

  The excitement stirred by the journal when it first arrived had diluted to the point where her adventure was becoming a trial. The emptiness suddenly engulfing her had come out of the blue.

  In the weeks before she left New Zealand, she had often woken with a feeling of lightness and freshness. Several days, and sometimes a week or more, could go by without her thinking about Tony. In Hawaii, when Jason introduced Trina into the family, she’d keenly felt his absence, but in between, especially in Cornwall and then in Paris, he’d faded into the background as people and activities swept her along. But he was always there.

  Travel with Tony had been exciting and interesting. They’d talk endlessly about their discoveries and shared experiences, but these days Megan found drifting around some of the most beautiful places with outstanding scenery – hilltop castles, churches, palaces, craggy villages and stunning gardens – unfulfilling. No amount of inner discussion or imagined talks with Tony shifted those feelings.

  Neither had she expected to miss Jessica. The girl was a happy interlude, but within hours of her leaving, she’d felt bereft. Not necessarily for Jessica, but because she had no one to share anything with.

  Thinking of Jessica and the girl’s description of her as a strong woman simply added to her misgivings. It certainly didn’t describe the individual living within her skin.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she’d commanded, frustrated with herself. Think what a wonderful trip you are on, seeing so many amazing places, surrounded by living history, finding your past ...

  At that point, she’d run out of amazing and wonderful things and instead brooded about how aimless she had become. What was the matter with her? Why was she feeling like this now, at this point in her journey? For several weeks, she’d struggled with a strange sense of isolation that unexpectedly overcame her, irrational as it seemed.

  None of these thoughts appeared in her diary. She only wrote about what she saw, not how she felt. By the time she arrived in Nice she was shattered.

  * * * * *

  Determined to make the most of her time in the south of France, Megan hired a driver and car – anything to avoid driving on the ‘wrong side’ of the road. Her guide was knowledgeable and informative, doing his job professionally and with great efficiency. He drove her through valleys and mountains, into wine country and along the coast, to enjoy the flavours on offer. Together they toured the back roads into ancient stone villages built into near vertical cliffs, villages that were both tourist attractions with the usual retail offerings and places to live – places Isabel and Mrs B would have known. Places like the walled town of Vence and the historic village of St Paul de Vence, and Grasse, the capital of perfume, or Eze, a medieval village overlooking the Mediterranean.

  She lived the tourist life, but with no one to talk to beyond a chat with strangers.

  The food markets with their flower stalls and aromas that permeated the air – fresh bread, herbs, spices and charcuterie products – were enticing. She enjoyed the antique stalls and the friendly banter, but after a few days that dogged feeling of being detached from everything returned. Once, she could have furnished several houses with the number of armoires, linen presses, whitewashed tables, light brackets and chaises longues she saw. Now she wandered past them, disinterested. There seemed no point. She found it harder to resist the fine linens and eventually bought a small hand towel as a reminder.

  If eating alone at home was unsatisfying, suddenly eating alone three times a day in hotels and cafés became unbearable. “I can’t stand this any longer!” she screamed.

  “I’d like to enrol in a live-in French immersion cooking and wine course, please,” she said to the woman in the tourist bureau, determined to fight the encroaching darkness.

  That week life began to change. Her hostess and her family treated Megan as one of their own. She found it productive, restorative and more enjoyable than expected, and full of laughter amid some lessons on life. Her cooking skills improved immensely, but her French remained poor. Some things they couldn’t teach her.

  But all good things end and, energised again, she packed her bags.

  “Au revoir. Take care, madame. Good luck on your journey. I hope you find what you seek.”

  For the next leg of the journey, she conceded defeat and flew to Zurich. Isabel’s journey had taken them from Nice to Genoa, then north to Geneva and Bern as well as Zurich, and south again to Venice before reaching Florence – for no apparent reason Megan could find. Isabel hadn’t said why they stopped, only where. Megan suspected they were convenient train stops after a predetermined number of hours, except for the disjointed distances. Maybe Isabel didn’t record all the places. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to travel all day in a train to spend another night in another town simply because Isabel had once been there – not any more.

  Isabel’s journey had been more about visiting people and participating in the social calendar rather than places. With no social calendar to follow, Megan could do sightseeing on her own terms. She saw a poster for a luxury train tour through Switzerland that offered ‘the world’s most beautiful locations, first class hotels, spectacular mountains, dramatic bridges and dazzling lakes’ and instantly booked the nine-day trip. It sounded like bliss.

  With only ten people and the two guides to escort the party, here was her opportunity to share the same sights and same experiences with the same people. It wasn’t cheap and, since she was still not used to the fact she had money to spend freely, initially hesitated at her extravagance. Luxury won.

  Not once was she disappointed. It proved an excellent decision and worked out exactly as she’d hoped. On board she teamed up with Rosemary, an Englishwoman also travelling alone, and an Australian couple. They laughed a lot. Rosemary, a good decade older than Megan, exhibited such joie-de-vivre that Megan felt ashamed. Her gloomy mood of late seemed suddenly unworthy. Like the folk she’d left behind in Cornwall, it was unlikely she would see these people again either, but she was grateful for their company. They broke the dark spell she had been under. Rosemary, in particular, was the one to teach her a new lesson for her new life.

  “The memory of love will remain, always. Grief is simply the price we pay, but the beauty of life continues. Love and laughter is what makes it fun.
Always remember the saying: We don’t stop laughing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop laughing.”

  Megan had heard the saying many times before but had forgotten its message.

  The change in speed as the train slowed for a station dragged Megan’s attention back to the here and now. They were nearing Venice, her favourite city out of all the places she and Tony visited. For that reason she’d chosen to come back, rather than because Isabel had stayed there. For the next week, she would enjoy Venice just for its uniqueness before meeting up with Sarah and Trina in Florence.

  The loud whistle penetrated Megan’s thoughts enough to realise she should pack up and make ready to get off. Looking around, she spied a young man in the seat diagonally across from her. She would ask him to help lift her suitcase down.

  Megan’s Diary

  10 April 2011 – Venice

  My journey has been one of discovery: of new people, new experiences and new places. I’ve learnt more about myself on this pilgrimage than I expected. Some of it I like and some I don’t, but at last I have a growing sense of purpose.

  My higgledy-piggledy response to these new discoveries has been as varied as the places and people – sometimes good, sometimes disappointing. But I am grateful to those I’ve met for showing me the art of living life to the full.

  I learnt shutting myself away is not living and neither is wandering around aimlessly looking for something to do. I need to find a new meaning for my life. I want to use Constance’s money to help people, just like she did – in the end.

  The flurry of constant movement is starting to defeat me. Maybe I’m getting old, or maybe New Zealand has a slower pace of life where people sometimes even notice one another. Here, I feel a bit lost. Isolated and removed from everything I know and understand, and sometimes I’m lonelier than I care to admit.

  My journey continues and I’m beginning to understand why following Isabel seemed right for far more reasons than I realised. I am learning so much, even though it’s been a bit of a wild-goose chase so far, but I’m sure I’ll find her somewhere along the way.

  I’m starting to wonder if her spirit will be found in Florence where I think her story really begins, or back home in Auckland where she spent most of her life.

  Chapter 22

  “Happy Birthday,” said the voice when Megan answered her cell phone.

  “Jessica! How wonderful to hear from you. What a lovely surprise.”

  For a few moments, Megan answered her questions. “Yes, I had a great time. I’ve visited a few of the usual tourist sights but Mario has mostly taken me to places away from the regular haunts and shown me a different side of Venice. It’s been wonderful.”

  “Mario! Who is Mario?” Jessica sounded doubtful. Sometimes she acted just like one of Megan’s own children, worrying and chivvying her to take care.

  “My guide. I met him on the train. Well, not actually met him. I asked him to lift my suitcase down. He was such a nice young man and so helpful, he carried it all the way out to the street.”

  “You let a stranger take your bag?” squeaked Jessica. “What if he had run off with it?”

  “Don’t be silly. Everybody does it. How else am I going to manage? In fact, he asked me where I was staying and helped me all the way here – up and down steps and over little bridges, and down alleyways, until he found the doorway. I doubt I could have found the place by myself, let alone managed my suitcase. It’s a quaint, out-of-the-way, old style pensione. He wouldn’t take any money, so I hired him as my guide.” Megan finished her story feeling rather pleased with her innovation.

  “You’re sure it’s safe?” If anything, Jessica sounded even more doubtful.

  “You haven’t travelled much, have you?”

  She assured the girl of her safety and began to relate some of her adventures, which included walking for miles and cruising up and down canals in his speedboat. He was her constant companion. She’d seen and done things she wouldn’t have known about, thanks to Mario, like visiting small community markets and even smaller eateries that served the most authentic Italian food.

  “Just delicious, some of it. Mario took me to some of the outer islands to see the lacemakers and glassblowers. I’ve even eaten fish cooked straight off the boats and managed to learn a few words of Italian. I hope Trina will be pleased with me.”

  “Sounds like you are having a ball.”

  “Yes, I am. Now, tell me about you. What have you been doing?”

  Jessica launched into her activities since her return to Cornwall. They were very busy at the office, and her father had completed the name change and installed new signage. “I enrolled in a cooking course when I came back,” she announced. “I’m really enjoying it. Much more than I expected ... and ...”

  Megan detected the hesitation in her voice. “And what?”

  “I’ve met someone,” Jessica whispered.

  “Fantastic. That is the best news I’ve heard.”

  On the first night, she’d shared the cook bench with Max. Since then, they’d developed into quite a team.

  “It’s early days, but we get on really well.”

  “That is the best birthday present you could have given me.”

  “Actually, I think I can do better than that.”

  Jessica explained how their conversation in Paris about Constance’s book collection had started her thinking. She remembered seeing a small key with a ribbon attached in the old Trevallyan files. “So when I got back I made some enquiries. Starting with Mabel.”

  “Good old Mabel. What did she say about it?”

  “She didn’t recognise the key, but she did say I should try the library.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “A hidden drawer, she reckons.”

  “A hidden drawer! That sounds more like something from a farce or murder mystery to me,” laughed Megan.

  Jessica had thought so too. Although sceptical, she’d wanted to check it out. Mabel insisted on going with her to show her where to find it and had talked nonstop all the way. ‘I was only a youngster back then, of course, but sometimes I would help my mother, when she were housekeeper. I seen Constance use that drawer behind the false panelling in the library more than once. What with Constance gone ’n all, I reckon there’s few other people would remember ’bout it.’

  Mabel had been right. One piece of the decorative strip-panelling that ran around the library shelves Megan had so admired, did move. Behind it, they found a small drawer.

  “And the key fits,” Jessica added.

  “So what’s in the drawer?” Megan wondered how many more surprises Constance could keep springing on her from the grave.

  “Letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “Yep. All tied with ribbon and neatly filed into decade lots.”

  “That’s incredible. What sort of letters?”

  “Personal ones by the look of them, and all from one person.” Jessica hesitated. “Isabel.”

  “Isabel!” Megan thought she sounded like a parrot, repeating everything Jessica said, but was so shocked she opened her mouth automatically. “What did they say?”

  “I don’t know. I only opened one to see who it was from and didn’t read any of them. The handwriting on the envelopes appeared the same so I assumed they were all from the same person. The first one was dated 1912 and the last one 1959.”

  Before Megan could answer, she could hear another phone ringing in the background.

  “Hang on a mo, I must get that.”

  Megan couldn’t hear what was said but less than a minute later Jessica was back on the line. “Can you do me a favour, please? Go to your window and tell me what you see.”

  “What? Why? Never mind that, tell me more about the letters.”

  “I will, but right now I’d like to know what you can see from your window,” insisted Jessica.

  Megan crossed the room and slid up the sash window. “My room overlooks a courtyard. There’s an old marketplace to
one side and a café and gift shop to the left. An alleyway leads ...” Megan broke off her description with a shriek as her gaze dropped to the people below. “It’s Sarah. And Trina!” she shrieked in disbelief at the two girls grinning and waving up at her. Trina was carrying a large bunch of flowers. “You set this up! Didn’t you!”

  Jessica laughed. “You can go now. We’ll talk later.”

  “Hang on, the letters ...?” but it was too late, Jessica had hung up.

  Megan grabbed her room key and dashed down the stairs to meet the girls. “What are you two doing here?” she wanted to know as hugs and kisses were shared.

  “Isn’t it obvious, Mum? We decided to help you celebrate your birthday ... So here we are,” added Sarah needlessly, twirling around like an excited puppy chasing its tail.

  “I know we were due to meet up in Florence after the weekend, but I couldn’t let you keep Venice to yourself now, could I?”

  “And I couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t join in the fun too,” Trina chimed in.

  Feeling fit to burst with a grin across her entire face, Megan buried her nose in the flowers pretending to sniff their perfume to hide the sudden tears threatening to embarrass her. “This has got to be the best birthday surprise ever. Between you two and Jessica I can’t imagine anything better.”

  Back in her room, she put the flowers into water while Sarah filled in some of the missing details from Mabel’s story that she’d got from Jessica.

  “So it was a miracle Jessica found it at all,” concluded Sarah.

  Megan agreed wholeheartedly.

  “I can just imagine Mabel saying she was all cock-a-hoop when they found the letters. It would be so like her, and Jessica got her just right.”

  They laughed at the way the girl had mimicked the old woman.