“It’s just where I was born, Daidre. Why did you want to know?”
She turned her head. Her gaze took in everything: the earthen hedge, the stones, the boulders in the field, the tiny junction in which they’d parked. She said, “Because I was born here.”
“In that farmhouse?”
“No. Here, Thomas. In this…well, whatever you want to call it. Here.” She walked over to a stone and from beneath it he saw her remove a card. She brought it to him and handed it over. As she did so, she said, “Did you tell me that Howenstow is Jacobean?”
“It is, in part, yes.”
“I thought so. Well, what I had was a bit more humble. Do have a look.”
He saw she’d given him a postcard with the image of a gipsy caravan on it. It was of the type that once embellished the countryside with the flavour of Romany: the wagon bright red, the arched roof green, the wheels’ spokes yellow. He studied it. Since she clearly wasn’t of gipsy birth, her parents must have been on holiday, he thought. Tourists had done that in Cornwall for years: They hired wagons and played at being gipsies.
Daidre seemed to read his mind, for she said, “No romance to it at all, I’m afraid. No getting caught short on a holiday and no Romanies in my background. My parents are travellers, Thomas. Their parents were travellers as well. My aunts and uncles, such as they are, are travellers also, and this is where our caravan was parked when I was born. Our accommodation was never as picturesque as this one,” with a nod at the card, “as it hadn’t been painted in years, but it was otherwise much the same. Not quite like Howenstow, wouldn’t you say?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure he believed her.
“Conditions were…I’d have to call them rather cramped, I suppose, although things improved marginally by the time I was eight years old. But for a time there were five of us shoehorned together. Myself, my parents, and the twins.”
“The twins.”
“My brother and my sister. Younger than I by three years. And not a single one of us born in Falmouth.”
“Are you not Daidre Trahair, then?”
“I am, in a way.”
“I don’t understand. ‘In a way’? What way?”
“Would you like to meet my real self?”
“I suppose I would.”
She nodded. She hadn’t removed her gaze from him since he’d looked up from the postcard. She seemed to be trying to evaluate his reaction. Whatever she read on his face either reassured her or told her there was no further point to obfuscation.
She said, “Right. Come along then, Thomas. There’s far more to see.”
WHEN KERRA CAME OUT of her office to ask Alan’s advice on a hiring issue, she was greatly surprised to see Madlyn Angarrack in reception. She was alone and wearing her kit from the bakery, and Kerra had the odd sense that Madlyn had come to make a delivery of pasties. She looked at the reception desk to see if a box with Casvelyn of Cornwall written upon it was sitting there.
No box in sight, Kerra hesitated. She reckoned that Madlyn had apparently come on a different sort of errand, and she assumed that the errand might have to do with her. But she didn’t want any more harsh words with Madlyn. She felt somehow beyond them now.
Madlyn saw her and said her name. She spoke tremulously, as if in fear of Kerra’s reaction. That was reasonable enough, Kerra decided. Their last conversation hadn’t gone swimmingly and they’d hardly parted as friends. They hadn’t, indeed, been friends in ages.
Madlyn had always possessed a glow of health, but that was missing at the moment. She looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well, and her dark hair had lost something of its lustre. Her eyes, however, were still her eyes. Large, dark, and compelling, they drew you in. No doubt they’d done as much for Santo.