A Midwinter's Tail

by Lili Hayward

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; General Fiction; Animals; Holiday books; Magical Realism; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A town in need.
An extraordinary cat.
A season for miracles...

It's nearly Christmas and committed Londoner, Mina Kestle, is close to signing a deal that will make her career and give her everything she's ever wanted. And then she receives a mysterious letter in the post along with an ancient key, sent by her long-estranged godfather . . .

Davy Penhallow is an artist who lives on the tiny Cornish island of Morgelyn with only his pet cat, Murr, for company. Mina hasn't seen or heard from him in decades, but now it seems he wants her to look after his cottage - and his cat - while he recovers from a stroke in hospital. Mina doesn't know why Davy has written after all these years, but she intends to do what's right: sort out the cottage and the cat and then get back to London in time for her career-saving meeting, before everything she's built comes crashing down around her.

But the more time Mina spends in the cottage, looking after Murr and remembering the magic of Cornish folklore, the harder it becomes for her to tear herself away. And when she discovers that a set of ruthless property developers are coming for Morgelyn, she realises she might be the only one who can stand in their way to save the island, Davy's cottage and Murr's home.

As Christmas draws ever closer and echoes of the past - her own and the island's - wash up in her memory, Mina begins to unravel a generation of secrets... and discover what it is she has truly always wanted . . .

Release date: October 12, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 58000

Sample

The call of a curlew fills my ears, haunting above the tiny, secluded cove. In the winter twilight, the waves are gentle, soft as velvet covering a fiercely beating heart.

The sign has been scoured by the weather, lost beneath lichen, but I know what it says. The letters are traced in salt spray on my lips.

Morgelyn.

When last I walked here, the heather on the headland towered above me and there was a hand holding mine, guiding my steps. Now, I’m alone. Taking a breath I make my way down towards the shore, into the maze of furze.

A rustle, a snap and the hairs on my neck rise with the feeling of being watched. In the shadows beneath the winter-blooming gorse, sea-green eyes blink into being.

‘Murr?’

I take a step forwards, only for the cat to turn tail and disappear in a flurry of grey paws.

‘Murr!’

I race down the narrow path, following the cat who always remains a few steps beyond my reach, leading me this way and that through the wild gorse until, at last, the soil beneath my feet turns to sand, and I find myself standing on the shore. Up ahead, a cottage glows in the twilight, a ship’s lantern hanging from an old hook, illuminating grey stone and a weather-beaten door, where someone sits, waiting …

‘Mina?’

I look up with a jolt. No curlew’s cry, just the distant wail of a siren echoing from the streets below. London’s lights resolve themselves through the polished window, reflected in the dark waters of the Thames.

‘You OK?’ Paola asks, handing me another glass of champagne.

‘Yes, sorry.’ I pull a smile onto my face. ‘Miles away.’

Years.

All around, our company’s Christmas party is in full swing. The private penthouse bar is a wonderland of plastic fir trees twinkling with fairy lights, fake snowdrifts scattered across the floor and huge, reflective baubles that distort people’s faces like fun mirrors at a carnival. Novelty ties are gradually loosening millimetre by millimetre, cheeks growing shiny as the glasses of champagne circulate, knocked back on stomachs empty but for tiny, tasteful canapés – a disc of turkey meat, a sphere of cranberry gel – served by waiting staff dressed in fashionable Nordic knitted jumpers and Santa hats. I take another hefty sip of champagne. It’s still only 16 December; Christmas seems to start earlier every year.

‘Any sign of our target?’ I ask, trying to remember what I was meant to be doing.

Paola’s glittery nails drum a pattern on her phone as she nods towards the bar.

‘Ten o’clock.’

There he is, in an impeccable blue suit, drinking whisky rather than the free champagne, a flash of tartan sock at the ankle his only concession to the season. Jeremy Hunter-Thorpe is the client on every agency’s Christmas wish list, the one who might save me from being fired, if I can snag him for our company before the year is out.

‘I can’t believe he’s here,’ Paola whispers. ‘It’s fate. Have you spoken to him yet?’

I shake my head, champagne fizzing in my nose. ‘It’s not exactly fate when this is the closest members’ bar to his office.’

‘Come on, Mina. You know him, don’t you?’

‘My dad does.’ I wince. ‘They play golf.’

Paola gives me a wry smile. She’s our team’s assistant and one of the only friends I have at work. She’s also too kind to bring it up, but we both know what people whisper about me around the coffee machine: Only got the job because her father knows half the city. Why else would Marianne hire her? She’s useless.

It isn’t true, but I can’t really blame them for thinking it. Most of them are so ambitious it makes my head spin, even without the mutters from management about ‘downsizing’ the team … Work lacks conviction – that was the feedback from my last appraisal. No matter how many proposals I put forward, or designs I work on, or times I tell myself I’m lucky to have this job, it still feels like I’m trying to wear a version of myself that doesn’t quite fit. I know it, and I know they know it.

With a deep breath, I square my shoulders. Dad’s connections or not, if I bring in Hunter-Thorpe they’ll have to think twice about keeping me on. Defiantly, I down the rest of the champagne – too fast. It splashes my chin, dripping onto the expensive green silk dress I borrowed from my stepmother Julia in an attempt to be ‘festive’.

‘Shit!’

Paola’s ready as ever, stepping in front of me. ‘Go and clean up,’ she says. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Right, thanks.’

At a half-run, I grab my handbag from the concierge and escape to the ladies. It’s empty, thankfully, choir-sung carols piped in from somewhere, masking the chatter of the party.

I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day …

Mid-December and it still feels a thousand years until Christmas is over and done with. Two more weeks of worn-out songs on the radio and adverts for parties in every bar and eggnog-flavoured coffee and where will you be spending the holidays, Mina? I lean on the tinsel-decorated sink, missing my mum with the sort of sudden, sharp pang that still takes me by surprise, even after all these years. Without her, Christmas has always felt … empty. Nothing more than a day of awkward small talk with my father and stepmother, all the while trying not to remember how magical it once felt. Sighing, I blot at the champagne with a paper towel, then dig around in my bag for the lipstick I flung in there earlier.

Of course, it’s nowhere to be found. I pull out handfuls of junk: tissues, old lip balms, ink drawing pens that I haven’t used for months but can’t bear to throw away, a crumpled envelope …

Frowning, I turn the envelope over. It’s the size of my hand and very scruffy, the original address pasted over with a floral sticker, presumably forwarded from my father’s address by Julia. I dimly remember scooping it up from the mailbox in a rush the previous morning, before yet another fourteen-hour workday put it out of my mind.

I flip it over. There’s a return address in spidery green ink.

Morgelyn, Isles of Scilly, Cornwall.

My heart gives a triple beat, and for an instant, beneath the carols, I think I hear the call of a sea bird.

Part of me wants to throw the envelope in the bin or shove it back into my bag unread, but my fingers betray me, working at the paper to tear it open.

Immediately, a scent wafts out, battling with the festive spice air freshener: a combination of crushed greenery and a whiff of turpentine, so familiar that it hurts. In a daze, I stick my hand into the envelope, only to prick myself on something sharp and drop the whole thing, spilling the contents onto the tiles.

Blood wells in a single bead on my finger. I lick it off and taste iron, staring at the impossible object that lies on the floor: a key, made from rusted metal, a hundred years old if it’s a day. A slip of paper is tightly wrapped around its length like a ribbon, holding a sprig of a strange, spiky, ghostly green plant.

Sea holly. The name comes to me as if someone whispered it in my ear.

Morgelyn.

Hesitantly, I pick up the key. It’s heavy in my palm, like something from a story, real and half-imagined at the same time. The paper comes away with a gentle hush, and I unwind it to read the message, written in green ink in a hand I never thought I’d see again:

Mina - please look after her

‘Davy?’ I whisper.

The bathroom door creaks, letting in a blast of party noise and someone singing about how they wished it could be Christmas every day.

‘What’s taking so long?’ Paola hisses. ‘He looks like he’s about to leave!’

‘Just coming,’ I call dazedly, still staring at the key. Why is it here in a London bathroom and not in the pocket of yellow oilskin jacket, wet with sea spray? Why is it not hanging on a hook, beside a blue, weather-beaten door that opens onto a sandy path?

Light paws, bounding over rocks towards me. Eyes bright as gorse flowers. Hot chocolate in my numbed hand, sweetness mingling with the salt on my lips. My mother’s laugh as we dashed from the waves. A man’s soft voice, weaving a Christmas Eve ghost story as a storm lashed the windows.

‘Hey!’ Paola snaps her fingers. ‘Earth to Mina.’

I’m back in the bathroom, and outside the party lurches on, waiting for me to smile and nod.

‘Yes, coming.’ Hurriedly, I shove the key and the envelope back into my bag, run a hand through my mouse-brown curls to check they haven’t gone frizzy, and follow Paola into the party.

‘Go on,’ she mutters, looping a string of gold tinsel around my neck like a scarf, ‘you can do it.’

I’m not so sure I can. My head is swimming with questions about the key and the strange note, but I raise my chin and walk up to the man at the bar.

‘Mr Hunter-Thorpe?’ I ask, trying to sound confident. ‘I’m Mina Kestle. I think we might have met once or twice before?’

‘Kestle …’ The man’s eyes pass over the top of my head, looking for someone more important. ‘Any relation to Jonathan Kestle?’

I give my best businesslike smile. ‘My father.’

‘No!’ Hunter-Thorpe actually looks at me, his pouchy cheeks lifting in a smile as he takes in the tinsel. ‘Oh, but of course, Mina. Didn’t recognise you, you’re all grown up.’

I help myself to another glass of champagne. ‘That’s right. I’m working nearby, as a marketing executive at Felder, Price and—’

‘Yes, your father said you were doing something here. Didn’t quite believe him. After all the fuss you put him through about being an artist.’ He beams down at me indulgently. ‘Gerard and I used to love your little Christmas cards.’

My smile grows strained. The cards were Dad’s idea of playing office politics, getting me to draw special festive pictures for his clients and bosses every year. The cute factor, he always said. I didn’t mind. It filled some of the time I was home from boarding school, and gave Dad and I something to talk to each other about. That was before art became a problem between us; a constant argument about wasted time and money that had finally exploded when he found out I’d applied for art school without his knowledge, rather than for a law degree, like he’d wanted me to.

I’m not going to fund you throwing your life away, he’d raged.

I’d left home that night, aged eighteen, and hadn’t taken a penny of his money since. Was using his name to lure Hunter-Thorpe any different? I shove the thoughts aside.

‘Well, I’m still involved in the creative side of things,’ I say. ‘Which is why I wanted to ask about your latest campaign. I had some thoughts about it, and was wondering if we could arrange a meeting?’

He eyes a tray of deconstructed mince pie cubes as it passes. ‘I’m jam-packed until Christmas, but my secretary might be able to squeeze in a hot choc for old times’ sake. We’re going to Scotland for the holidays, Gerard and I and the kids. Excellent golf. You’re spending it with your father?’

Did he just agree to a meeting? He’s finishing the last of his whisky, as if about to leave. ‘Oh, we don’t really make a fuss about Christmas,’ I murmur. ‘But I’ll make the appointment, so I can show you some ideas?’

‘Fine, fine. First thing Wednesday. But on one condition.’ He points his empty glass at me. ‘That you’ll send us another charming card. Gerry did so enjoy them.’

‘Of course,’ I say, trying to ignore the rush of embarrassment and frustration. ‘I’d be happy to.’

‘And say hello to your father!’ he bellows, making his way towards the doors.

‘Well?’ Paola whispers, sidling over to me. Across the room, our boss Marianne is staring, her steely gaze at odds with the flashing reindeer antlers perched on her head.

‘He agreed,’ I say, slightly bewildered. ‘He agreed to meet me before he leaves for the holidays, Wednesday morning …’

Paola puts her glass down with a clink, adjusting her own tinsel scarf. ‘I’m telling Marianne.’

I watch as she hustles away towards our boss. All at once the party is too much, the music and the chatter painfully loud. Grabbing my drink, I escape onto one of the balconies. They’ve made an effort out here too, with faux-fur blankets on the seats, artificial fir branches and glittery plastic icicles decorating the railings. I catch a whiff of someone’s cigarette smoke and sigh into the cold city air, my breath hanging before me like unformed words. I did it, scored a meeting with Hunter-Thorpe, just like everyone wanted. So why do I feel so empty?

Reaching into my bag, I pull out the key. A horrible, leaden thought has been forming, ever since I saw it. And those words: Please look after her.

Who – what – could he mean? And why would it have anything to do with me, unless …?

‘There you are.’ Paola rushes out of the party, cheeks glowing. ‘Marianne’s face when I told her – I thought she’d swallowed the olive in her Martini.’ When I nod vaguely in response, her smile falters. ‘Mina, what is it? And what’s that?’

‘I think it’s the key to my godfather’s cottage,’ I hear myself say, as if the idea isn’t absurd.

‘You have a godfather?’

‘Had. Haven’t spoken to him since I was a kid.’ I hand over the key, the coiled note.

Paola frowns at it. ‘“Her.” Who’s he talking about?’

Fur clung with cold, smelling of the wild sea, a warm, heavy weight at my side, singing me to sleep as a storm howled outside the window.

I shake my head to clear away the memory. ‘I’m not sure. Davy used to have a cat, called Murr, but that was years ago.’

She squints at the note. ‘So he’s asking you to look after his cat? Is he going away for Christmas or something?’

The knot of worry in my stomach tightens at those words. As far as I remember, Davy rarely left the islands, rarely left his cottage and his beach. I pull out my phone and, as Paola asks whether I’m OK, type the name I’ve pushed away for almost two decades.

Davy Penhallow

I click on the top entry. It takes me to a web page called Artists of Cornwall.

Davy Penhallow

Seascape painter of Morgelyn, Isles of Scilly

A famously reclusive writer, artist and poet, known as the ‘Old Man of the Sea’ for his exceptional winter seascapes. Penhallow’s works reflect a deep knowledge of Cornish folklore, myth and legend, and a love for his home on the tiny storm-tossed island of Morgelyn, 28 miles south-west of the tip of Cornwall.

There’s a thumbnail; a decades-old black and white photo showing him just as I remember. Rumpled fair hair streaked with grey, shy smile, wearing a knitted fisherman’s jumper. He’s holding a cat in his arms; a huge, grey, furry creature almost blurred out by the photograph.

But there are no contact details beyond the address of a gallery on St Martin’s, one of the larger islands.

Paola asks again, but I can’t answer. That picture of Davy has brought a memory flooding back, as indistinct as the badly rendered photograph. A magical Christmas from so many years ago; my last truly happy Christmas, in fact. I remember a boat ride on the wild seas, an open hearth, a tiny shop, the feel of my mother’s soft jumper against my cheek as people sang late into the night inside an old village pub. I remember twinkling, painted decorations, the salt-green smell of sea holly, a story of other worlds spun by the hearth on Christmas night.

The cold, smoky air stings my eyes, and I realise they are wet with tears.

‘Mina,’ Paola takes my arm. ‘What is it?’

I swipe at my face, forgetting about my make-up. ‘Sorry. It’s just a shock. We haven’t spoken for nearly twenty years. And now this.’ I look at the key again. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do?’

She raises a perfectly sculpted brow. ‘Can’t you call him to ask?’

‘He doesn’t have a phone. Or if he does, I don’t have the number.’ I half-close my eyes, thinking. It’s all so long ago. But wasn’t there a phone box on the island, corroded by the salt, its red paint worn pink by the winds? ‘Wait …’

I tap in a new search on my phone, and after a bit of scrolling, I find a listing on what looks like a telephone box enthusiast’s website.

Telephone Box. Outside the Helm Inn.

Morgelyn. Cornwall.

There’s a number listed. I hit dial, knowing it’s probably ridiculous; that it was probably disconnected years ago. But after a long silence, it starts to ring. Paola makes a now what face at me as I stand, phone pressed to my head, with London’s traffic rushing by floors below, trying to imagine a windswept island hundreds of miles away, a telephone box ringing and ringing into the night, lonely as a lost ship’s. . .