‘I should have come to the hospital.’
This made Joy sob afresh, thinking what could have been if they had come to get her. If they’d gathered her and baby Radia up in their arms, bundled them into the car, intervened. If they’d taken them to safety then all this loneliness could have been avoided.
‘But I didn’t call you to let you know I was in hospital. Didn’t tell you Radia was here,’ Joy said, berating herself.
‘Still. If I’d stuck by you. Understood what was going on.Nota mistake I would make again.’
Joy didn’t want to, but she knew she had to say it now, otherwise she’d never say it and the pain would always be there, gnawing at her.
‘I didn’t reach out because I felt abandoned. Like you dropped us when we needed you.’
Pam pulled her child closer. ‘Yes,’ she said, the tears making her voice thick. ‘I see how you’d see it like that. I can’t blame you. I’m so sorry, my Joy.’
A sea breeze whipped Up-along and lifted the words into the air.
‘So what now?’ Joy said, turning her face to her mum’s.
‘We start again?’
Pam seemed to hold her breath waiting for Joy’s answer.
Joy’s hand settled on her mum’s. ‘OK. We start again.’
The sun at last sank into the sea and the first of the evening stars shone high up in its darkest depths. Mother and daughter sat and watched them shine, their four hands clasped in a soft knot, all of the unsaid words that had kept them apart for so long now released, and along with them, the resentment and sadness had lifted too.
‘Beautiful spot you’ve found here,’ said Pam in the peace of the evening, and Joy had to agree.
There was nowhere she’d rather be right now, except maybe in her little flat in London with her family around her table.
‘You know, Mum? After Lisbon, I’ve nothing in my diary.’
Pam turned to her daughter with interest and the pair fell into chatting, planning for autumn, dreaming of winter, until all the lights in Clove Lore were lit.
Joy and Radia were heading home, at long last.
Chapter Thirty
Clove Lore was made for weddings. Its dramatic skies, ever-changing seascape, impressive beach waterfall and the grand vistas of the Big House’s sweeping lawns viewed from the rhododendron walk and camellia grove, all offered up the perfect backdrop for the best day of a couple’s life.
There had been incredible, lavish weddings in the village’s halcyon past. Generations of Clove-Congreves tying the knot had hosted dignitaries, royalty even, in the ballroom, back when it had sparkled under crystal chandeliers and glowed with candlelight, like something from a Julia Quinn novel.
There had been smaller affairs where sweethearts amongst the fisherfolk had exchanged vows in the little chapel that had been destroyed in the Christmas flood last year. The ruined spot, if you are in a fanciful mood and listening hard enough, still echoes with the sound of the choir in their Sunday best, singing for the bride and groom.
Generations of honeymooners have been waved off from the launch in scrubbed-up sailboats, the halyard rope strung with fluttering stubs of white ribbon-like kite strings.
Minty herself, the lady of the manor, had pulled off a long-awaited wedding of her own back in mid-summer. An admittedly modest affair, all that the estate’s diminished funds allowed, it had taken place when the village was approaching something that felt like normality after the flood, when the soil in the flower beds, brought in by truck to replace the stuff that had washed away, was still a rich black and sweet smelling, the camellias just taking root after their spring re-planting. Everyone had stopped in their painting and dehumidifying, repointing and plastering, and swapped wellies and overalls for long-neglected party clothes. It had been a cosy, simple affair, and in Minty’s opinion surely the most heartfelt occasion the Clove-Congreve family had ever hosted.
But today, Minty insisted, would be a different thing entirely. Today, Elliot and Jude’s wedding day, was her new venture’s flagship event. It would be a day of breath-taking, showstopper surprises, a landmark in society occasions that would raise the bar for Devonshire destination weddings. She’d seen to the arrangements with characteristic zealous efficiency and now it was here, her Big Day.
‘There’ll be no slipping off and no slouching,’ she told the waiting staff, assembled before her now, bleary-eyed at nine in the morning.
She couldn’t afford to bring professionals in, but now that she’d drilled the two catering college students – home for the summer from Plymouth – and little Samantha Capstan, who lived only a short walk away along the main road and whose mother ran a laundry service in the area washing bedding for B&B owners, Minty was confident they’d not let her down. Even if Sam trembled every time Minty added another thing to the very long list of things she expected her to remember.
‘And don’t let anyone wander around holding coats or hats. Convey them straight to the cloakroom please,’ said Minty walking up and down the little row, casting her eye over their white shirts, black trousers and neat aprons. Sam fidgeted and shuffled. ‘Sore feet already?’ Minty asked the girl.
Sam pulled herself bolt upright, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead like an army recruit.
Minty smiled with satisfaction. ‘And top up every glass that looks to be less than half full. But be mindful that no guest is to become inebriated. Jolly, yes; leery, no. Yes?’
