My dad is the rugged hero of Scandi-Noir dramas on TV. A Viking-tall actor with cheekbones to die for who cycles across Copenhagen when not kicking arse on screen. So it’s hard to fathom why this odd little man in front of me is claiming to be my father.
‘I met your mother at a music festival in the late eighties and we kinda hooked up,’ says the man who’s apparently called Barry. Not Sven or Ulrik or Axel, but Barry, which is possibly the least Scandinavian-sounding name ever.
He adjusts the mirrored sunglasses he’s worn since turning up on my doorstep and glances through the window at the waves smashing into the harbour wall.
‘Spandau were headlining the festival. Nice lads. And I was in an up-and-coming band that was about to sign with a record label.’ His voice has a strange Essex-meets-mid-Atlantic twang. ‘Did your mother tell you about me?’ When I shake my head, he shrugs, before tugging at his leather trousers which are bunching up in the crotch area. ‘That’s weird.’
‘What’s weird is you arriving out of the blue,’ I say, sharply. I’m not trying to be a bitch but Barry’s abrupt arrival feels like an ambush and my heart is hammering. ‘Maybe you could have written first, before just turning up.’
‘Could have, probably should have, but that’s not my style, babe. I’m more a spontaneous doer than a writer,’ he drawls. ‘I suppose this has come as a surprise then.’
Uh, yeah, Barry. I’d say some random bloke invading my home and claiming paternity is a surprise. I’d go so far as to call it a humungous shock, even worse than waking up to discover that Trump is leader of the free world. My hands are shaking and I clamp my arms to my sides so Barry won’t see.
It’s not that I’m unused to long-lost family suddenly appearing out of the blue. I only met my great-aunt Alice for the first time earlier this year, and I’ve met my slimeball, distant cousin Toby Trebarwith since. But that was almost a year ago, and none of us were expecting my absent father to crawl out of the woodwork.
When I stay quiet, Barry pushes his bottom lip forward and frowns. ‘Didn’t your mother tell you anything about me at all?’
‘Not really. Just a few bits and pieces.’
Like letting slip when I was a child that my dad was a Viking. Just one tiny fact, but it sparked my imagination and my father became a Scandinavian superhero living in a perfect IKEA world. My unusual bright blue eyes only gave credence to the story which began to feel real over the years. It’s daft, I know, but I thought ‘the Viking’ might have become an actor, which is why I’m obsessed with Scandi dramas like The Bridge and Borgen.
I never once imagined that my dad was a short man called Barry with a paunch hanging over the top of his trousers and greasy hair down to his shoulders.
‘If you really are my father,’ I say slowly, my voice wobbling as he sinks with a loud oof onto Alice’s sofa, ‘how long have you known about me?’
‘For sure? Only since I Googled “Trebarwith family in Salt Bay” a couple of weeks ago and your photo came up. It was some news story about you being caught in a flood. Did this place get swamped then?’ He takes in the bare plaster walls of Alice’s sitting room and the new jute carpet. ‘I’m surprised that your mum kept quiet about me. I never forgot her. She was the first woman I ever sha—’ he presses his lips together tightly ‘—made love to and you always remember your first time, don’t you, even though it’s all fumbled and frantic. Anyway—’ he glances at my aghast face and ploughs on ‘—I heard on the grapevine that she was pregnant with my baby.’
‘Did you take the trouble to check if the baby she was carrying was yours?’
Now, that really does sound sharp but I don’t care. He’s talking about Mum’s pregnancy like it was a piece of juicy gossip; something to be bandied about on the tour bus. If his daft band had a tour bus – they probably all crammed into a clapped-out Ford Cortina between gigs.
‘Nah, afraid not,’ says Barry, his trousers creaking as he shifts in his seat. ‘I’m not proud of that but I was young and not ready to be tied down. You’ve got to understand that my band was on the brink of being discovered. We were going to be stars. I tried to get in touch later but—’
‘So, realistically, anyone could be my father rather than you,’ I butt in. My desire not to share DNA with this strange man is overcoming any misgivings I might have about painting my poor mother as a slapper.
Barry shakes his head. ‘The newspaper piece said you’re twenty-nine so the timing’s right, and then there’s this.’
With a flourish he whips off his sunglasses and stares straight at me. Oh. My. God. His eyes are the same piercing periwinkle-blue as mine.
‘Heavens!’ Alice has slipped into the room unnoticed and is standing right behind me. She leans forward with her hand on my shoulder and gazes into Barry’s face. ‘And who might you be?’
Barry scrambles to his feet and wipes a hand down his AC/DC T-shirt before stretching it out towards my elderly great-aunt. ‘I’m Barry Stubbs, Annie’s dad.’
Stubbs! I’m seriously going to have to rethink the whole Scandinavian heritage thing.
Alice falters for a moment before grasping Barry’s hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘How marvellous to meet you. Did Annabella know that you were coming to visit us?’ When I shake my head, on the verge of tears, she gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘I see, and do you intend to stay in Salt Bay for long, Mr Stubbs?’
Barry sniffs and shifts from foot to foot. ‘For a while probably ’cos I’d like to get to know Annie, um, I mean Annabella, now we’ve finally caught up. I mean, how often do you get to meet up with long-lost family?’
‘More often than you’d imagine,’ I murmur, thinking back to the unexpected letter I received from Alice in January, back when I was a free spirit living in London. I was a real city girl then and didn’t realise that sleepy Salt Bay on the wild Cornish coast would steal my heart, along with Alice, and the amazing choir I’ve set up here – and Josh. Lovely, handsome Josh. When I think of the kind, gorgeous man who’s taking me out this evening, my stomach flutters.
‘Where are you staying, Mr Stubbs, or do you live in Cornwall?’ asks Alice, pulling her shawl tightly around her frail body. There’s a nip in the air now November’s almost here. And the house, though dried out after the flood, still has a lingering air of damp on days like today, when sea and sky are the same steely grey.
‘We’ve come down from London but we’ll find a B&B round here somewhere.’
‘We?’ A horrible sense of unease whacks me in the pit of my stomach.
‘Yeah, we.’ When Barry swings round, I notice a bald patch on the top of his head that he’s tried to hide with a comb-over. ‘I was going to mention Storm at the right moment – which might as well be now. She’s outside in the car.’
‘Who’s Storm?’ I ask, sending up a silent prayer that Storm is Barry’s loveable, uncomplicated, not-related-to-me dog.
‘She’s my daughter, which makes her your half-sister, though she’s considerably younger than you. Sixteen, going on twenty-five,’ he laughs, while my mouth falls open but no sound comes out because I can’t quite believe this is happening.
All my life it was just me and Mum until she died of breast cancer. For twenty-nine years I had no other relatives and now, within the space of a few months, I’ve got more feckin family than I can shake a stick at. And I think Barry might just be a relative too far.
‘Fetch her in,’ orders Alice, with a glance at me. ‘You can’t leave the poor girl in the car.’
Barry moves to the stone-framed window and raps sharply on the glass. ‘Storm,’ he hollers, above the dull boom of a high tide ebbing and flowing against granite. ‘Come in here now.’ He beckons towards his grubby white Fiesta that’s parked outside with two wheels on the grass verge.
While Alice goes to open the front door, Barry sits back on the sofa and stretches out his chunky legs. He’s a total stranger. Someone I’d pass in the street without a backward glance. How can he possibly be my dad, even with the eyes? My legs are feeling wobbly now so I take a seat opposite him and fold my arms tightly across my chest.
‘So where exactly was this festival where you met my mum?’
Barry breathes out slowly as though he realises he’s being tested.
‘In a field near Melton Mowbray.’
Hhmm, that tallies with another piece of information I managed to drag out of Mum. She told me she met my father at a festival in Leicestershire.
‘The ironic thing was,’ adds Barry, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ‘it was called the Sunshine Festival but it rained for two days solid and the mud was up to our knees. Some people came in Jesus sandals and got trench foot.’
Oh crap. I rarely tell people my full name because they invariably take the mick. I mean, why would any woman call her child Annabella Sunshine Trebarwith? You just wouldn’t, would you, unless you were drunk or stoned, which is what I’ve always assumed Mum was when she named me. But what if she chose ‘Sunshine’ for the bona fide reason that it was a link to her child’s father?
‘I can’t believe your mum didn’t tell you anything about Va-Voom and the Vikings,’ says Barry testily. ‘We were brilliant.’
‘The Va— whats?’ I stutter.
‘That was the name of my band that almost got signed by a top record label. We would have done if our lead singer hadn’t got rat-arsed and vommed all over their A&R man, silly sod. I was a Viking.’
And with those final four words the last piece of the paternity puzzle slots into place. Barry Stubbs is my father.
Before I can fully digest the arse-clenching magnitude of this, there’s a flurry at the door and in walks a tall girl with a messy bun so tight it’s pulling the skin at the corners of her eyes. Thick bleached-blonde streaks litter her brown hair.
‘Hey Storm, babe, meet Annie, your half-sister.’ Barry grins, looking very pleased with himself.
‘It’s good to meet you,’ I squeak, good manners trumping the wave of nausea that’s tightening my throat.
‘Yeah.’ Storm dabs at the blue eyeliner beneath her lower lashes as though she meets half-sisters every day of the week. She’s wearing a shedload of make-up though I’m sure Barry said she was only sixteen. My mum wasn’t the most hands-on of parents, but even she would have baulked if I’d cleaned out the Rimmel counter in my mid-teens.
There’s an awkward silence broken only by a tinny chugga-chugga-chugga coming from the earphones slung around Storm’s neck. When Barry nods towards them, she pulls her phone from her pocket, with an exaggerated sigh, and turns off the music.
‘Can I get you both a drink?’ asks Alice, who’s leaning for support against the door frame. ‘Storm, would you like some orange squash?’
Storm snorts and picks at her purple painted nails. ‘Nah, have you got any Red Bull?’
‘I— I don’t think we’ve got any red drinks, have we, Annabella?’
‘I’m afraid not but we might have some lemonade.’ Storm wrinkles her nose and gazes around Alice’s sitting room which is sparsely furnished and cold. ‘Things are a little unfinished in here because we had a flood.’
‘Rad!’ Interest flits across Storm’s face. ‘Did anyone die?’
‘Thankfully no, but all the furniture was ruined so we’re replacing it bit by bit.’
I could say more about the pretty river that flows through the village turning into a torrent and sweeping through the centuries-old house. Or Josh fighting his way through the swirling water to rescue me. But Storm has already lost interest now she knows the fatality count was zero. Folding her arms, she perches on the back of the sofa and pouts. Her jeans have trendy rips across the knees and I catch a glimpse of fake-tanned skin.
‘I’ll have a cup of tea, please, if there’s one going,’ says Barry, giving Alice a wink. ‘Lots of milk and two sugars. Three if it’s in a mug. I’ve got a sweet tooth.’
Alice never uses mugs for tea. She gets sniffy at the very idea but she smiles serenely and heads for the kitchen, with me scurrying after her. Five minutes with my father and half-sister is quite enough and I can’t wait to escape.
‘Well, this is all rather unexpected,’ says Alice, the Queen of Understatement, as she spoons Earl Grey leaves into a china teapot. ‘They’re an odd couple, though anyone could tell that Mr Stubbs is related to you. I’ve never seen eyes like yours before – the same brilliant blue. And you and Storm look very similar.’
‘Really? I can’t see it myself.’
Sitting down heavily at the kitchen table, I scratch my fingers across the pale oak to check that it’s solid and real. Which probably sounds weird but my head is spinning and everything feels like a dream – one of those surreal nightmares that wake you with a start and keep you huddled under the covers even when you’re desperate for the loo.
‘Oh yes,’ says Alice, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘Her eyes are different but she has the same shaped jawline and pretty face. You could be sisters. Indeed, it seems that you are sisters!’
Pulling an oak splinter from beneath my fingernail, I suck at the bubble of blood that follows it, only vaguely registering a tang of salt and metal.
‘Half-sisters. We’re not fully related. And it’s all very well, Alice, that I’ve met Barry and Storm and know they exist. I guess it ties up a few loose ends. But the really important thing is, how do we get rid of them?’
Alice has just taken the biscuit tin from the cupboard and hesitates slightly before tipping Hobnobs onto a plate. ‘Are you quite sure that’s what you want, Annabella, when you’ve only just met them both? You didn’t get rid of me and that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
When her face creases into a smile, I can’t help but smile back at the feisty eighty-three-year-old who’s become so dear to me over the last few months. London seems ages ago now – it was a different life and I was someone else. Someone without family. Without roots. Without Josh; lovely Josh whose smile still makes me catch my breath.
‘I know this must be hard, Annabella,’ says Alice, leaning across me to place the plate on the table. ‘And I can only imagine what a shock it must be. But I think you need to welcome your father and sister – half-sister – and see where it leads. After all, I won’t be here forever and then you’ll have no family left, apart from Toby.’
Jeez, that’s a terrible thought! Grabbing Alice’s hand, I stroke my thumb across her soft, papery skin. ‘Please don’t say that. I don’t want you to go anywhere.’
‘I’m certainly not planning on popping off any time soon but we have to be realistic,’ says ever-practical Alice, letting her hand rest in mine for a moment. ‘I’m getting older, my health isn’t getting any better and Stephen says I’m deteriorating, though it’s an ugly word and I wish he wouldn’t keep using it, even if he is a doctor.’
‘But I don’t understand why Barry’s tracked me down now,’ I say quickly, keen to move on from any suggestion of Alice’s death – though I’m obviously not going to let her die, not ever. That’s why I’ve been shovelling multi vits and echinacea into her like Smarties. ‘He could have looked for me ages ago while Mum was alive, and he hasn’t even asked about her.’
‘Which are all valid questions that need answering but you won’t get those answers by sending him and his daughter away. You need to spend some time together.’
‘Maybe it’s nothing but a scam and Barry’s only taking an interest in me now ’cos they plan to ransack the place.’
‘There’s nothing much left to take,’ murmurs Alice, still keenly feeling the loss of so many of her possessions. Photos and ornaments were swept away in the rising waters; precious items that the insurance pay-out can never replace. ‘Find out more about Mr Stubbs and Storm, by all means. That’s only sensible. But give them a chance, like you did me. You were lonely for far too long, Annabella.’
She’s right about the loneliness thing, though I didn’t always realise it when living the high life in London. Having no roots or responsibilities was brilliant during my twenties but then my friends started settling down, the big three-o beckoned, and what I wanted from life began to change.
I’ll be thirty a few days before Christmas and will celebrate my special birthday here with family, new friends and a man who might just be the love of my life – and, says the niggly bitch-voice in my brain, none of that would be happening if you hadn’t given Alice a chance. So maybe she’s right about Barry and Storm after all. Ugh, this is all far too weird and confusing.
‘Trust me on this, Annabella,’ says Alice, switching off the kettle, which is billowing clouds of steam. It doesn’t turn itself off these days and, as a result, steam-blistered paint is flaking from the ceiling. ‘Learn from my hard-earned wisdom so at least there are some benefits gained from me being this ancient.’
‘I know you’re wise, Alice, but maybe you’re wrong this time?’ I venture, but Alice is having none of it.
She snorts and pulls her mouth into a thin line. ‘The Trebarwiths are very rarely wrong.’
I think about my mum, but it seems unnecessarily cruel to add, Except when it comes to dealing with knocked-up teenagers.
So, instead, I jump up to help as Alice pours boiling water into the teapot with an unsteady hand but she bats me away. ‘I suppose you’d better carry the tea or I’ll slosh it everywhere but I’m perfectly capable of managing the biscuits, thank you very much.’
When we take the tea and biscuits into the sitting room, neither Barry nor Storm has moved but there’s an atmosphere as though they’ve just had words.
‘Thanks very much.’ Barry takes the cup I’m offering and has a sip. ‘Ooh, fancy tea. Cheers.’
‘So tell me about yourself, Mr Stubbs. What do you do?’
Alice switches on a lamp to chase away the early-evening gloom and closes the curtains she’s borrowed until the room is decorated. They’re covered in orange swirls and utterly hideous but I feel cross when Storm looks at them and sniggers. Alice chooses not to notice and settles herself into an armchair.
Hugging his tea to his chest, Barry grins. ‘I’m still playing guitar in a rock band which is why my hearing’s so rubbish but it’s worth it ’cos we’re about to hit the big time.’ Storm groans and rolls her eyes. ‘We just played support for The Bank Trains.’
When I look at him blankly, he says, ‘They’re big in Blackpool.’
‘I hate stupid Blackpool,’ mutters Storm, fiddling with the tarnished stud in the side of her nose that looks like a blackhead. ‘Are those chocolate Hobnobs?’ She grabs two biscuits from the plate on the telephone table and takes a huge bite, scattering crumbs across the carpet.
‘So tell me, Mr Stubbs, exactly why you’ve come to Cornwall to see my great-niece.’
I’m used to Alice’s directness but Barry looks ill at ease for the first time since his arrival.
‘Having found out where Annie was hiding…’
Hiding? Indignation flashes through me but Barry carries on, oblivious.
‘… I thought it was time to meet her and get my two girls together. It’s not right that they’re apart. Though I didn’t realise Salt Bay was so—’
‘Backward,’ scowls Storm, rubbing a hand across her neck, which is a different colour from her made-up face. She puffs out her cheeks and more crumbs scatter everywhere.
‘I was going to say far away,’ says Barry, nudging Storm off the back of the sofa with his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Storm’s in a bit of a grump but it took us ages to get here and we still need to find a local B&B before it gets properly dark. Then if Annie’s up for it, maybe we can all get together tomorrow and talk about things properly. I’d really like that.’
He turns towards me and stares with his piercing blue eyes until I feel obliged to give him a curt nod. It’s either that or punch him and, even in the most trying of circumstances, I’m not a punchy person.
‘That’s settled then,’ says Alice, her lined face pale in the lamplight, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t find a bed and breakfast establishment in Salt Bay. It’s not that kind of village. You could stay here overnight if you’d like.’ What the hell? She ignores my panicked expression and pushes a hand through her straight, white hair. ‘Storm would have to sleep on a put-you-up in the box room but it’s comfortable enough for a youngster.’
Storm looks as though she’d rather sleep on wet harbour sand than in Alice’s spare room but Barry leaps at the chance of a free bed for the night.
‘That would be awesome, if you don’t mind, and we won’t be any trouble. We’ll grab our stuff from the car and get settled in. Come on Storm, give your dad a hand.’ He grabs Storm’s arm and drags her into the hall.
Once I hear the front door slam, I swing round to face Alice, who’s sitting serenely in her chair, next to the stone fireplace with its gleaming brass fender. ‘What did you say that for? You can’t let them stay here at Tregavara House.’
Alice shrugs. ‘They are a little eccentric, I’ll give you that, but they seem harmless enough and you need to get to know them. I’m sorry if you think I’m meddling, I truly am. But they’re your family.’
‘At the moment they’re nothing but strangers.’
‘As were you the first time you spent the night under this roof, Annabella.’
‘That was different,’ I protest.
‘Was it?’ Alice smooths down the soft fabric of her olive-green dress. ‘Your attitude at the time was rather like Storm’s, albeit without the teenage rudeness, but I’m so glad that we took a chance on one another. I must admit that I’d be lost without you.’
It’s a touching admission from my great-aunt which rather takes the wind out of my sails. As she knew it would, because she’s a canny old bird. Stephen, her doctor, once said he’d learned never to underestimate the Trebarwiths, and I’ve done the same. Once Alice has her mind set on a course of action there’s no budging her.
So, though I sigh as Barry bowls back into the sitting room with a bulging holdall, I keep my mouth firmly shut. Storm trails in after him with a bright pink wheelie case, her full mouth turned down at the corners and a crease between her eyebrows. The wheels of the case leave a dark smudge of mud across the new carpet.
‘Annabella will show you to your rooms and perhaps, Storm, you could help her to set up the spare bed.’
Storm grunts and her shoulders drop as she, like me, accepts the inevitability of the situation. It seems that she and I will be getting to know one another whether we like it or not.
‘This is good of you, Mrs Trebarwith,’ says Barry, slinging the holdall over his shoulder and narrowly missing a large china cat on the mantelpiece. It’s Alice’s ugliest ornament and, sadly, the only one that survived the deluge.
Alice smiles but doesn’t correct him that she’s now Mrs Gowan and has been for years since marrying a local fisherman. Though she’s been a widow for well over a decade now and was alone in this big house – the Trebarwith family home – for ages. ‘I’m sure Annabella will tell you where everything is but let me know if you need anything.’
Barry and Storm follow me into the hall and I let them go ahead of me up the elegant staircase which bends at its middle into a perfect L-shape. They certainly are an odd couple; Barry in his too-tight trousers and Storm, whose baggy jumper rides up to reveal her belly-button ring as she hauls her case up stair by stair. Her dad doesn’t offer to give her a hand and neither do I, though I probably should.
Are these two strangers really related to me? I thought I finally had this family thing sorted out, but you can always count on life to throw you a curveball when you’re least expecting it.
Storm is more impressed with the first floor landing of Tregavara House which, untouched by flood waters, has a thick, pale carpet, embossed cream wallpaper and a large stained glass window. It’s gloomy outside but the rich reds and blues of the Victorian glass are vibrant and the intricate pattern traced by the leaded edges of the panes looks like lace.
‘Posh,’ mutters Storm under her breath, pulling at her case, whose wheels are stuck in the shagpile. In the end, she swings the case into her arms and carries it past the closed door of Alice’s bedroom.
At the doorway to the spare bedroom, the one that Toby uses when he’s visiting, I pause and gesture for Barry to go inside. ‘You can have this one and I’ll set Storm up in the box room, which is at the end of the landing.’
‘Why can’t I go in here?’
Storm peers into the pretty bedroom opposite, whose stone-framed windows face the dark sea that’s flecked with white. There’s a yellow lamp fringed with glass beads on a bedside table and a tall, thin wardrobe with enamel door knobs.
‘This one’s already taken. It belongs to Emily.’
Storm swings around so fast that the chunky gold necklace she’s wearing bashes against her collarbone. ‘Who the hell’s Emily? Not another sister!’
‘No, don’t panic. Emily’s not related to either of us, but she lives here and provides help for Alice.’
‘The old lady? Why, what’s wrong with her?’
‘Alice isn’t terribly well and needs some support.’
There’s no way I’m telling this surly teenager about the neurological condition that’s making Alice increasingly slow and unsteady on her feet.
‘I s’pose she is getting on a bit,’ mutters Storm, her lip curling in disdain at the huddle of soft toys on Emily’s bed.
There are quite a few toys – some of them battered and moth-eaten from Emily’s childhood – but they’re soft and warm and hint at Emily’s kind, loving personality. Storm, on the other hand, is unlikely to ever have a cuddly giraffe nestling on her pillow. A shark, maybe – a tiger with its teeth bared, or a velociraptor.
Firmly closing the door to Emily’s room, I lead Storm away and start sorting out clean bedding from the airing cupboard.
‘Here you go.’ The pile of sheets I hand to Storm are old but have the fresh smell of washed linen. ‘We’ll get you settled into the box room and your dad sorted, though he already seems to be making himself at home.’
Barry, just visible through his open bedroom door, has abandoned his holdall in the middle of the floor and is stretched out on the bed with his boots still on. ‘This’ll do nicely for the night,’ he calls out, his stacked heels rucking up the worn candlewick cover. ‘I like a nice hard mattress and it’s good for my back after all that lugging heavy speakers about. Our band can’t afford roadies. Thanks, Annie.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Alice,’ I say with a tight smile, pulling more blankets from the airing cupboard.
‘Maybe we can have a chat about family stuff tonight if we’re staying here,’ shouts Barry from his bed. He raises himself on his elbow as I come into the room laden down with thick, prickly blankets and stares at me with his unnerving bright blue eyes.
‘I’m out tonight and it can’t be changed,’ I say briskly, dumping the bedding on top of his legs.
‘Ah, I get your drift,’ Barry winks and kicks off his boots, which skid across the ca. . .
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